


Shadows in Silver

by Umi_no_arawashi



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (the non-con is not between Thorin and Thranduil), 1920s AU, Actors AU, Alpha Thorin, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Human, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hollywood, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Omega Thranduil, Omegaverse, Parent/Child Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Silent era AU, Slow Burn, Violence, gothic horror, movie stars au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26420569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umi_no_arawashi/pseuds/Umi_no_arawashi
Summary: In a perfect, controlled picture of grace, a long white figure emerges from the car, wrapped in silk trimmed with snow-white fur despite the stifling heat, his famous unfashionably long white-blonde hair softly draped over one shoulder under a snug-fitting cloche hat, his lean, supple waist emphasized by the long, drop-waisted line of the coat, his face a picture of pale perfection, with the barest hint of paint to enhance his gorgeous, dramatic features.This is Thranduil Lasgalen, possibly the biggest star in the movies in the year 1925, male omega, worshipped by the public the world over.
Relationships: Oropher/Thranduil (Tolkien), Thorin Oakenshield/Thranduil
Comments: 183
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during the heyday of the silent movie, in 1925 Hollywood. People familiar with that period might notice a few references here and here, but I make no claim to any kind of serious historical accuracy, or indeed, realism. I like to think it’s in keeping with the spirit of the movies of the era.
> 
> After all, _they_ never let realism get into the way of the story they wanted to tell.
> 
> —————

It’s only 7 am and already the sun is bearing down mercilessly, baking the dust in the streets. It rises behind the spoked wheels of the many autos already whizzing about in a never ending-flow, carrying busy people where they need to go. To studios, to auditions, to the stage, to fame and glory. It’s hard not to feel cynical about the cobbled-up mess that is Los Angeles and its movie colony, especially in the morning. Hollywood looks tawdry and cheap when the sun has just come up, like a girl who stayed up too late the night before, ragged, tired and a little sad, a run in her stockings and with her caked-on makeup slowly peeling off like dry plaster. 

Thorin had his chauffeur drop him at a cafe he likes not far from the studio. He thought walking the few yards to the large columned gate would wake him, shake him from this funk he seems to have fallen in, but it’s not working. The day hasn’t even started and he’s already tired. He shouldn’t be, this is a new project, with a director he doesn't actively hate, and the script is not the worst he’s read this year. Another piece of sentimental, vaguely exotic nonsense, but he knows he can do it with his eyes closed. 

Perhaps that’s the problem. The studio knows exactly what he’s good at, and they’re not asking for more. After all, Thorin has been Photoplay’s Alpha of the year twice now. This year, and two years ago, in 1923, the year he made that blasted swashbuckling film that has cemented him as a romantic lead in the public’s imagination. One turn as a loveable alpha rogue gallantly rescuing a nobleman’s pretty omega daughter, and now this is all he does. Swoosh in, in whatever dubiously historically accurate costume has been picked for him, defeat some ridiculous, moustache-twirling villain in a hammy sword fight, sweep some lithe, swooning omega off her (it’s almost always a her) pretty feet and that’s it. The public loves it. As his agent says, simple sells. Sure, back in Europe, they’re making sophisticated, realistic pictures that are artistically miles ahead of this drivel, but that’s not what the public wants. 

The public, even though it’s mostly composed of betas, the most common sub-gender by far, can’t get enough of alpha-omega romances, the least likely the better. They want to see powerful alphas snarl and bear their fangs, sweet little omegas bat their eyelids and cry prettily in distress, they want all the drama of bond-bites and the sexual thrill of heats, even though of course you can’t openly use the word or show a heat too explicitly on the screen. Not unless you want your film burned by the censors, at any rate. But you can suggest things, with a hand pressed feverishly to a forehead, a languid swoon, a bared leg here, a negligee slipping off a shoulder there, a tasteful yet ardent embrace.

And Thorin is, for some reason, very good at the whole thing. He is known for his commanding presence, his smoldering alpha good looks, his flashing dark eyes and his mane of black hair, but mostly, the public like his love scenes, the way he’ll take an omega by the waist and hold her (or him, but again, that’s very rare) passionately, the omega trembling like a delicate flower in his strong manly arms. 

It’s all fake, of course. Thorin himself is probably as far from the alpha ideal as he could humanly be. In real life, he’s never been with an omega. He’s got nothing against them, of course, but there’s something about the meek, needy way most of them seem to behave that put him off. He sticks to betas, where he doesn’t have to worry about the complex interplay of alpha/beta behaviour. And more than once, he’s been attracted to the heady strength of another alpha, even though this kind of thing is quite impossible these days given his fame. It’s much too risky.

Still, it’s a living, Thorin supposes. He can’t complain. A few years back, he was starving on the Orpheum Circuit, playing excerpts from famous plays with a small bedraggled theatre troupe in between infinitely more successful vaudeville acts, and now he’s the King of the movies, as the fan magazines like to print. The greatest alpha to ever grace the silver screen. 

What a lot of drivel. No wonder he finds his steps slowing as he nears the studio entrance. For a second, he wonders what would happen if he just turned around. Left. Walked out of this town and this life and went… somewhere. Anywhere. It wouldn’t matter. Some small town somewhere, where no one would know him, and he’d be something simple, a mechanic, perhaps. After all, that was what he’d been supposed to be, before he caught the acting bug and found himself chasing fame and fortune, never for one second guessing that he’d end up so damnably bored by all of it before even turning thirty. 

But it’s too late. Sam Jenkins, the security guard at the gate, has seen him, and is already waving at him with a huge smile on his face, and Thorin painfully forces himself to smile back. 

“Good mornin’, Mr. Oakenshield!” says the beta jauntily. “Hot as the dickens, ain’t it?”

“Good morning, Sam. It sure is,” answers Thorin, trying to sound friendly. It’s not the man’s fault, after all.

“New movie startin’ today, ain’t it? Sure is exciting!”

All the man sees day in, day out are movie people come in and out of the studio, and yet he’s still starry-eyed about it all. Thorin barely manages a nod in answer as he walks by.

“Oh, Mr. Oakenshield, you’ve been moved over to lot 3. They said 2 wasn’t big enough. Only the best for your movies, right? They’ve set up makeup and costume there as well. If you just wait here a second, I’ll get a car for you, sir.”

“It’s okay, Sam. I’ll walk.”

Thorin walks off before Sam has had time to reply. He doesn’t want to wait, and he certainly doesn’t want a car ride. That would mean more hassle, small talk with the chauffeur, the trouble of making one’s way with a car through the crowded space between the studios, always full of people carrying props, of extras in full costume, of god knows what animals are required these days. No, he’d rather walk. 

Besides, it’ll take longer, which means he gets a few more moments with his thoughts before he has to be on stage. The great hulking shape of lot 3 looms in front of him, a mountain of iron and glass, already teeming with people dashing in and out. He can almost hear the excited chatter from here. 

Sighing to himself, he starts down the path, trying to will himself to find some kind of point to what he’s doing, when a horn sounds loudly, right behind him, startling him out of his brooding.

“Hey, you, out of the way!” shouts a voice, and Thorin whips round, incensed. The chauffeur of the car, a sparkling white Packard limousine, meets his eyes and his mouth snaps shut audibly. He stops the car abruptly. “Oh gosh, sorry, Mr. Oakenshield, didn’t see it was you there. I’m so sorry.”

Thorin bites back his first answer, which was going to be less than polite. “It’s quite alright,” he says through clenched teeth. 

The man, a middle-aged beta, leans out of the car with an anxious look. “Gosh, I’m sorry, now your suit’s all dusty…”

“I’m fine.” In truth, his suit’s been dusty all morning, with all the walking he’s been doing.

A white-gloved hand appears at the passenger window, elegantly extended. “What appears to be the problem, Smythe?”

The voice is much deeper than what Thorin expected, and he’s taken aback slightly. The chauffeur steps down quickly and opens the passenger door, bowing with deference. “There’s nothing wrong, Mr. Lasgalen, I just stopped because there was someone in the way. It’s Mr. Oakenshield, Mr. Lasgalen.”

“Is it?” says the voice in deep, cultured tones, but now, of course, it makes perfect sense, because Thorin knows that name, as does half the planet, probably. “Help me out, if you please, Smythe.”

The chauffeur holds out a practiced hand, and, in a perfect, controlled picture of grace, a long white figure emerges from the car, wrapped in silk trimmed with snow-white fur despite the stifling heat, his famously unfashionably long white-blonde hair softly draped over one shoulder under a snug-fitting cloche hat, his lean, supple waist emphasized by the long, drop-waisted line of the coat, his face a picture of pale perfection, with the barest hint of paint to enhance his gorgeous, dramatic features. 

This is Thranduil Lasgalen, possibly the biggest star in the movies in the year 1925, male omega, worshipped by the public the world over. 

Thorin stares without meaning to. He’s never seen Thranduil Lasgalen up close before. Although Thranduil does attend some Hollywood parties, he’s always aloof, surrounded by a close entourage, and accompanied, naturally, by his alpha father. After all, not only is he that rarest of prizes, a male omega, he is also famously unclaimed and unmated, at the ripe old age of 24. More than that, famously untouched, if you believe the copy the publicists sell to the fan magazines. He is a paragon of omega virtue and purity, which of course makes his stunning beauty all the more intriguing. Omega magazines, glossy, large-print affairs with titles like Sweet Sunflower or Precious and more pictures than words, feature him more than any other celebrity on their covers. He is supposed to be the most perfect omega to ever grace this earth, which to Thorin, who knows this business all too well, has always sounded like a load of bollocks. It’s just a ploy, an angle worked by the omega’s father and the studio. It always is. 

And now that Thorin is face to face with the real thing, he has to congratulate himself. He was right. Sure, Thranduil is prettier in person than anyone should have a right to be, but there is nothing of the sweet meek omega in the look he’s giving Thorin. Thranduil looks at Thorin as though he’s appraising him and finding him wanting, to judge by the slightly disdainful curl of his upper lip. Thorin feels his hackles rise in response.

“Mr. Oakenshield,” says Thranduil, with a bow of his pretty head. “How do you do.”

“How do you do,” answers Thorin back with a bow of his own. Even though they must be at least ten feet apart, there’s the faintest hint of a scent in the air, sweet and fresh. Thorin tries his best not to sniff at that scent like an animal, but it’s undeniably there, and incredibly enticing. Thorin is used to being surrounded by the scents of omegas, given the fact his job entails spending a fair amount of time openly and demonstratively scenting them for the camera, and usually he’s very good at ignoring them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he adds automatically, trying to cover his reaction. “What are you doing at Erebor Studios?”

Thranduil blinks, looking at Thorin as though he was the stupidest person in the world. “I’m… making a picture, Mr. Oakenshield,” he says, every word perfectly enunciated.

Thorin coughs. “Yes. I meant… You’re signed with Greenwood, aren’t you?” 

More than that, Thranduil's father, Oropher Lasgalen, is the head of Greenwood Studio, probably one of the biggest in Hollywood, along with Erebor.

“I am. I do apologise.” Thranduil tilts his head slightly to the side, somehow managing to convey absolute contempt despite the politeness of his words. “I didn’t realise you didn’t know. I start work today on The Falcon.”

“The Falcon?” sputters Thorin. That’s the movie he’s starring in, the one that starts filming today. “But… that’s my movie.”

“Quite, Mr. Oakenshield,” says Thranduil in his low, precise tones. “I’m glad you seem aware of that fact, at the very least. I was wondering whether perhaps you’d been in the sun a little too long.” 

At that precise moment, Thorin feels like he could very gladly throttle that perfect, unmarked swan-like neck. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he says instead. “The omega role in that film is going to be played by Ms St. Johns. I don’t see what part…”

“So you haven’t been told? How odd. Ms. St. Johns finds herself unable to work at the moment. I would have thought someone would have informed you of that fact?”

The truth is, someone has probably been trying to tell Thorin. But he’s been running away from telephones and messenger boys for the better part of the week, trying to steel himself for shooting this movie with a lot of bootleg liquor and brooding. “I take it you’re taking over Ms St. Johns’s part, then?” he says, trying not to sound as annoyed as he feels.

“Indeed. As a favour to the director. He’s a friend of my father’s, you see.” 

“Wonderful.” Thorin smiles. Or at least, he bares his teeth. It’s the same thing, really. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Lasgalen,” he manages to say. He’s never been less sincere in his life. He feels like he’d rather cut off his own foot than spend one more moment with this omega. He’s not used to an omega looking at him like that, like he’s some vaguely ridiculous overgrown child. Not that he expects every omega to fall for him at first sight, but well, modesty be damned, he is Thorin Oakenshield, after all. There’s usually a lot more blushing and batting of eyelashes and a lot less of this supercilious crap.

“So do I, Mr. Oakenshield.” Thranduil doesn’t look much more sincere. “If you wish, I can give you a ride?”

“No, I enjoy walking.” Thorin would rather die. 

Thranduil bows his head once more, before regaining his seat in his car just as gracefully as he’d exited, one hand resting lightly on his chauffeur’s hand for support. A few seconds later, the car is gone, and Thorin is left with nothing but the image of Thranduil’s mocking sneer and the faintest hint of his scent still floating in the air.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thorin! I was starting to wonder whether you were going to turn up at all, lad!”

A huge, heavy hand crashes down on Thorin’s shoulder, and despite his terrible mood, he smiles and turns to greet his friend. “Dwalin.”

The bald alpha is grinning under his long whiskers. “You had us all worried. You do realise Lickspittle’s been tearing out his hair for the past few days trying to reach you, don’t you?”

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you’re here, and thank heavens for that. This whole thing is enough of a mess as it is. You’ve heard the great news, of course?” asks Dwalin, as they both make their way to the main stage, where the director is.

“If you mean about Lasgalen, yes. What gives?”

“Well, if you ever bothered to answer that telephone line the studio installed for you, you’d already know, lad. Bettie’s out. Word on the street is she’s knocked up.” Dwalin sighs. “I knew this was going to happen. That’s why you don’t want to work with mated omegas. Much too fertile.”

A rueful smile rises to Thorin’s lips. “Good for her, I guess. At least we won’t have to worry about that with Lasgalen, won’t we?”

“With that snow queen? No, you’re right. Though if you ask me, there’s an omega who could use a good, strong knot up the backside, if you know what I mean.”

“A bit stuck up, isn’t he?”

“A bit doesn’t start to describe it. Wait until you hear it all from Lickspittle himself. He’s delighted, by the way. A movie with you and that omega in it? It’s bound to make millions, lad, that’s for sure.”

Thorin shakes his head. “We’ll see. I met him on the way here, actually.”

“And?” Dwalin raises an eyebrow. They’ve reached the main stage, where the crew’s busy setting up the stage for this afternoon’s scene. Lickspittle, their director, is busy shouting something at one of the foremen. Both alphas stay back a little, half hidden by the rigging, to finish their conversation in peace.

“Like you said. Could use a good knotting.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” says a low, icy voice from behind them. Thorin whips round, and of course it’s Thranduil Lasgalen himself, staring at Thorin with pale, ice-blue eyes, looking about as friendly as an iceberg in the middle of the Atlantic, and Thorin’s mouth falls open as he tries to think of something, anything to say.

“Thorin, my boy!” The shrill, nasal voice of their director has never sounded sweeter to his ears. “There you are! Where on earth have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you all week!”

Thorin steps forward to shake the beta’s hand, grateful for the interruption. “I’ve been busy, Alfrid, sorry. But I’m here now.”

“Hope you’re ready to work, my boy, because this one’s gonna be a doozy, let me tell you. We’re adding a masked ball scene, you’ll see the script later, and there’s going to be a lot more drama… and you’ve met our new lead omega, haven’t you?”

Thorin forces himself to smile as Lickspittle gestures to Thranduil, who’s now looking demurely at the ground, features carefully blank. “I have. It’s… quite a change to the cast, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s why we had to make some adjustments to the story, but by golly, what a coup! This one’s gonna be the real thing, let me tell you that. With the charming Mr. Lasgalen as our omega…”

“Please, Mr. Lickspittle,” says Thranduil, his voice all sweet honey now. “Do call me Thranduil, if you please.” 

Lickspittle beams and Thorin gags inwardly. “Of course, my dear, of course. Anything to make you comfortable. Is everything quite to your liking?”

“Very much so, thank you.” Thranduil’s smile is sweet and demure. “But I’m afraid I have to go, I have been called to costuming, and…”

“Of course, my dear. Everyone’s been working very hard to make some new costumes for you. Had to start again from scratch, of course! I’m sure you’ll be very pleased. All very pretty, you’ll see. Lots of oriental frou-frou and such. But tasteful, naturally,” Lickspittle hastens to add. “Besides, I’ll make sure to have your father approve all the designs before you wear them, never fear.”

“I’m sure everything will be perfect, Mr. Lickspittle,” says Thranduil. “Oh,” he adds over his shoulder as he gracefully glides away, “do be sure to tell Mr. Oakenshield about my father’s conditions for filming, if you please?”

“Of course, dear, of course,” says Lickspittle, grinning from ear to ear. He looks like an overeager child faced with a mountain of candy, and Thorin rolls his eyes inwardly. Lickspittle might be a beta, but he’s clearly half-besotted with their lead omega already.

“What is he talking about? What conditions?” he asks brusquely, interrupting Lickspittle’s blatant ogling of the omega’s retreating figure.

“What?” Lickspittle jumps. “Oh, yes, of course. Well, I’m sure you know, Thranduil’s unmated and under his father’s guardianship. And Oropher - that’s his father, of course, you know him - is extremely protective of his son, naturally, as well he should be. Especially as he has to be around alphas for filming.”

Dwalin frowns. “What, afraid we’re gonna snap and ravish the lad in front of the whole crew, is he?”

“No, of course not. And no one’s saying you alphas can’t control yourselves,” the beta adds quickly. “It’s just… don’t get too close, that sort of thing.”

“That might be a bit of a problem, given the nature of the job, don’t you think?” Thorin says, inwardly rolling his eyes. Most of the script is love scenes. It’s the whole point of the movie.

“Well… obviously, if you’re acting, you’re allowed to put your hands on him and so forth. After all, it’s hardly an intimate setting, is it? And I know you boys are very professional and can be trusted around omegas. It’s just… you know. No fraternizing. Keep your distances when you’re not acting. Common-sense stuff, really.”

“I think we’ll be able to contain ourselves,” says Thorin behind gritted teeth.

“Still…” Lickspittle’s eyes glaze over again. “To think we’re getting Thranduil. My boys, The Falcon’s gonna be our greatest success yet. That story, with a male omega? It’s sure to be a hit.”

Thorin shrugs to himself. The story isn’t terrible, by movie standards, even though it doesn’t make much sense either. The titular Falcon, the role he’s playing, of course, is the deposed prince of some vaguely east-european country, now roaming the country with a band of loveable heroic rogues, protecting the innocents from behind a mask. Dwalin is playing the villain, as ever, the evil usurper who killed the hero’s father and took over the country. The omega is his beautiful bride sent from a distant land, whom the hero unknowingly rescues from bandits on the way to her - now his - future mate’s castle. There is a bit of everything - some action, some slapstick courtesy of the secondary characters, a lot of Sheik-like steamy sexual tension as the rescued omega is kept prisoner in the hero’s lair (though it’s some sort of cave and not a tent this time, and of course our hero behaves like a complete gentleman in the end.) And then, after a series of improbable adventures during which the omega falls head over heels for the alpha rogue, the evil usurper gets his hands back on his bride. He is just about to force a bond-mark on him when, to the surprise of absolutely no one, the hero swoops in to save the day, get back his kingdom, and claim the omega. 

Thorin’s not quite sure where they managed to fit in a masked ball scene in the middle of all that, but at this stage, nothing surprises him much anymore.

“Does it really change anything, the fact the omega is male?” he asks the director.

“Does it change anything? My dear boy! It makes everything just about ten times steamier, that’s what it changes! I mean, Bettie is lovely, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t necessarily obvious why two alphas would fight to the death over her. After all, it’s not as though there aren’t other omegas around. But a male…”

It is true, Thorin supposes, that male omegas have a special place in the collective imagination of the public. They are by far the rarest gender combination. Most people are betas, divided pretty evenly into the two sexes. Alphas and omegas only comprise roughly ten to fifteen percent of the population each, although that proportion rises dramatically in certain occupations. Most politicians, most captains of industry, most leaders are alphas. They’re uniquely suited for the job, the wisdom goes. Thorin, who has never felt very easy about his alphaness, thinks that’s a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Yes, alphas are often ambitious and strong-willed, but they are also raised differently, have different expectations thrust upon them, and different opportunities than other genders. 

There are less alpha females than there are alpha males, although not in dramatic proportions. Alpha females can, technically, give birth, but it’s largely frowned upon. Since they can also impregnate omegas, they’re considered honorary men, in a way. They’re largely expected to act and dress like alpha males, although of course they don’t sport the beard many alphas, Thorin included, often bear. There are several great alpha female stars in Hollywood, generally employed in leading alpha roles where they tend to play worldly and sophisticated alphas in tailcoats and tophats.

Most omegas, on the other hand, are female, both on screen and off. Almost all of them, really. Male omegas form a very small part of the population, less than one percent. It’s more common to be born with naturally red hair than to be born a male omega. They’re a strange biological quirk, possessing all the internal bits necessary to bear a child despite their distinctly male form, and they have a kind of androgynous beauty that’s been celebrated for centuries in art and now on film. All omegas have fine, delicate features, and most of them are very pretty, if a little vapid-looking for Thorin’s tastes, but in male omegas the interplay of strength and grace, of softness and steel, give out a particular kind of charm. 

And in crude locker rooms chatter everywhere, rumours circulate. Nothing else feels as good, they say, as knotting a male omega. It’s taken as fact by most teenage alphas, and whispered about in college dorms all over the nation. It makes them at the same time very highly prized and somehow slightly scandalous. For an alpha, there’s no higher status symbol than a bonded male omega at your feet. It’s the ultimate proof of your alphaness, as it were.

Again, Thorin privately thinks that’s probably a load of bull. A superstition born of their relative rarity, that’s all. Diamonds would just be another sparkly stone, if they were as common as glass. The fact they’re rare makes them valuable. He suspects it’s the same with male omegas.

Still, in the simplified version of the world that Hollywood creates, male omegas are one thing: a shorthand for pure sex appeal. It’s taken for granted any red-blooded male would do anything to mate one. It does add to the story, Thorin supposes. He has a sneaking suspicion that at some point during the movie, someone (probably his character) will grandly declare the omega worth more to him than the kingdom, or something like that. He can see the intertitle from here - Keep the kingdom, you knave!! I’m taking the omega. 

Or some such nonsense. 

Thorin glances over at Dwalin, who’s openly rolling his eyes at the way Lickspittle looks very close to drooling at the thought of his new star. 

“I’ll let you worry about all that,” says Thorin. “From where I stand, it makes no difference. An omega’s an omega.”


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the morning is mostly spent at costuming. The designers have all his measurements on file, so it’s mostly a question of checking the fit and seeing whether any alterations have to be made in order for the costume to photograph adequately once he’s wearing it. He doesn’t expect to be surprised by what they’ll have him wear, and indeed, he isn’t. It’s a lot of dark leather than emphasizes his bulky frame, as usual, although there is one particular fur-trimmed cape that even he is forced to admit looks rather spectacular. 

Hair and makeup get their turn as well. His long hair, also a sign of virile alphaness in Hollywood parlance, will be mostly left loose, which might make it a bit of a pain during action scenes. Still, he can’t complain. His last movie, a swashbuckler where he played a pirate, called for his hair to be intricately braided. It took hours to do every morning and usually left him with a headache by mid-afternoon. This will at least be slightly simpler. 

And he has to admit it doesn’t look bad, as he looks at himself in the dressing room mirror. He glances over at Dwalin, who’s been transformed into the fierce, bushy-eyebrowed villain he’s meant to play, and grins. “What do you think?”

“Not bad, lad, not bad. I can hear the public swooning already.” Dwalin glances at his wrist-watch, which although it’s the latest in fashion looks comically out of place with the velvet and gold robes of his costume. “Looks like we have ample time for lunch. Wanna head out?”

Thorin nods and they head out, making their way through the throng of actors and extras, make-up artists and dressers. The crowd parts naturally to let them through, one of those alpha privileges too obvious to even point out. When an alpha wants to get somewhere, the world around accommodates them. It’s how they also get one of the best tables at the studio commissary. It just happens naturally. Thorin doesn’t usually notice these things, but he has been thinking about this more than usual this morning. His alphaness is not something he’s that self-conscious about, but now, as he surveys the cafeteria, the pattern jumps out to him.

The largest and most conveniently placed tables are, without exception, occupied by alphas. There are a few betas interspaced here and there, of course, but there is at least one alpha sitting at each of them, and very few alphas seated at the other, less prized tables. It’s not as though the tables are segregated by gender, technically anyone can sit wherever they wish, but now that Thorin looks at it, it’s obvious. 

There are only a handful of omegas, and those are bonded, their prominent bond-bites on display, and sitting next to their alphas. This, on the other hand, is a rule. The studio has a separate dining room for omegas, and unless they’re with their mate, that’s where they eat. It’s one of those rules that comes from the great moral panic of the late ‘teens, where it seemed like overnight every politician, preacher and moralist in the country had decided whatever was going on in movieland was disgraceful and needed to be cleaned up. There even had been a push to ban omegas from the screen altogether. Their place, it was claimed, was in the home, in the private sphere, they were not supposed to parade around in revealing costumes, not supposed to be famous. It would go to their heads, the poor, ditzy things, and lead them to ruin, and worse than that, what a deplorable example for young omegas everywhere. It would distract them from their proper purpose, make them utterly unsuitable for mating, incapable of raising children and keeping a household. Sure, beta women now had access to education and careers - this wasn’t the middle ages, by golly - but everyone knew surely that if omegas started to think of anything else apart from their alphas the world was bound to crumble.

Cooler, more reasonable heads had prevailed in the end. Omegas remained allowed to act in movies, as long as they complied to strict morality clauses and the studios set up a few protective measures. The studios’ publicity offices, eager to prove how decent and moral the business really was, had inundated the fan magazines with articles about chaperones and special dressing rooms and interviews with omega actors and actresses stressing how this was all good, clean fun, but naturally what truly mattered to them was their homes and their alphas’ well-being. And of course, they would never dream of putting their careers before their families, and their alphas agreed with all they did. Unmated omegas all proclaimed themselves ready to drop acting at the drop of a hat, as soon as the right alpha came along. 

This had changed a bit, especially since the rise of Thranduil’s stardom. An entirely new narrative had needed to be created as his fame grew far beyond that of any omega star before him, and the word on the street was that narrative was the brainchild of his formidable alpha father, not for nothing one of the most powerful executives in the business. Thranduil, the magazines explained, was too pure, too fragile, too distinctly omega to become one alpha’s plaything. He belonged to the public, a kind of vestal virgin for the movie age, his talent a gift to the world. It was utterly ludicrous, and yet it worked. It sparked the public’s imagination, and Thranduil, barely seventeen when he’d made his debut, immediately became the darling of the country, everyone’s favorite omega. In the years since, he has grown up in the public’s eye, always picture-perfect, and his legions of adoring fans have only increased in number.

His fans, who are mostly, to be honest, betas, and especially omegas, who seem to all but worship the ground Thranduil walks on. Alphas, distinctly less so. Even Thorin, who has little interest in omegas in general, has to admit the whole bit is a little grating. Thorin has nothing against omegas, of course, and actually he would consider himself to be a lot more progressive than most (not excessively, of course, he’s not one of those extremists who wants to give omegas the vote, of all things), but the way Thranduil carries himself, it’s almost as if he thought he were too good for an alpha. Strong-willed omegas are one thing, and Thorin has met many in the business and gotten on famously with them, thank you very much, but this is just… a bit much. No matter how successful Thranduil’s movies are, there is such a thing as going too far. 

As for his fabled acting ability, well… Thorin will readily admit he hasn’t watched any of Thranduil’s movies. He doesn’t watch many movies, in fact, apart from a few experimental arty pieces from Europe that strike his interest and his own, given that he’s forced to sit through at least once at their premiere. But really, this isn’t Shakespeare, or the great theatres out east. This is the movies. You don’t even have to learn lines. In Thorin’s opinion, showing up is half the job, and this is especially true for omegas. After all, their parts usually consist of lounging around languidly in a series of improbably flimsy costumes, looking pretty and occasionally gasping in shock whenever the villain is being particularly villainous, until the alpha hero comes in to sweep them off their feet with a smouldering kiss. Thranduil may be pretty, but any omega can do that, Thorin is sure of it.

He’s so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t realise Dwalin has been trying to get his attention. 

“Oi, lad!” growls the alpha, punctuating his words with a swift kick to the shin under their table, and Thorin, startled, bares his fangs for a second in response. “What’s up with you? You’re hardly eating! We’re going to have to get going, you do realise?”

“I’m not especially hungry.”

“Not especially hungry my arse. You’re an alpha, alphas are always hungry. What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

“Yeah, well I’d like to see you do a little less thinking and a bit more eating. Ground yourself a little. Nobody wants a repeat of that Blue Lily incident. Get your head out of your arse or I’ll get it out of there myself.”

Thorin flinches at the mention of the Blue Lily. The production had been especially strenuous, he’d been particularly fed up with everyone's antics, disenchanted with the whole profession and filled to the brim with self-loathing, and he’d ended up walking away from the set mid-production. It was Dwalin who’d dragged him back, in the end, as he was doing his best to drown himself in tequila just south of the border. And on the way back, as Thorin’s head pounded with the worst hangover he’d ever had, Dwalin had given him the talking-to of the century. 

Enough with the selfish, self-pitying bullshit, he’d said. Either do this thing or don’t, but don’t fuck up everyone’s meal ticket just because of some childish temper tantrum. People depend on him. Thorin said he’d do this job, now he’d better get out there and do it, or Dwalin was going to kick him into shape and fast. In the end, Thorin had gone back, to everyone’s relief. And the film had ended up pretty decent, to his own surprise and Dwalin’s credit. It had certainly been successful at the box office.

Ever since then, Dwalin’s kept a very close eye on him, even though Thorin has somehow managed to stop himself from making such a fool of himself again. But he can’t exactly blame him for his sollicitude. 

“I’m alright, Dwalin. I swear. I’m not about to pull a Blue Lily on you. It’s just… This whole thing with the omega, it’s a bit annoying, that’s all.”

“Aye, that it is. But don’t worry. His highness might look all high and mighty now, but I know what’s going to happen.”

“And what’s that?”

“The omega’s gonna fall for you. They all do.”

Thorin scoff. “Hardly.”

“Sure they do, lad. S’a bit ironic, considering…” Dwalin wiggles his eyebrow conspiratorially. 

“Shut up, you idiot,” says Thorin, annoyed. His own personal preferences are no one’s business. 

“You’ll see. Give it a week, and he’ll be all doe-eyed and batting his eyelashes at you. You’ve got that thing… Don’t know what it is, but it sure gets them slick in a hurry!”

“Dwalin!” says Thorin, scandalised. 

Dwalin snickers. “It’s true, lad. Don’t know how you do it. Anyway,” he says, patting Thorin’s shoulder reassuringly, “don’t you fret. He’s not going to be any trouble, you’ll see.”


	4. Chapter 4

No trouble, Dwalin had said. 

So far, the omega has been nothing but trouble, and they haven’t even shot a scene with him in it. First the script had to be modified yet again, because apparently the omega’s part wasn’t fleshed out enough for the great actor that he is, and then of course there was something wrong with the costumes, and those had to be redone. And then just as they’d finally managed to get in a day of filming, just some filler scenes with Thorin and his band of merry companions, Oropher Lasgalen himself had blessed the set with his presence and decreed the lighting inferior. Thranduil couldn’t, simply couldn’t, be filmed in these conditions. A new lighting director had to be brought in, with fancy new equipment and fancy new ideas about half-light and shadows, which means the sets are now almost completely dark. That’s going to be a bother when it comes to filming the action scenes, Thorin can just tell. Not to mention they’re going to have to reshoot everything they’ve done so far or nothing will match.

And now, on the first day they’re actually filming a scene with him, the omega is late. Of fucking course, thinks Thorin. Typical. 

He hasn’t had any chance to interact with Thranduil since that first day, but his opinion hasn’t changed. Thranduil is clearly a stuck-up pain in the arse, and Thorin is looking forward to this scene about as much as sticking his own head in an oven. 

It’s an important scene, too, the first meeting of the gallant hero and the beautiful omega. The hero’s just fought off some bandits (that’ll be done in exterior, later on, with a lot of spectacular stunts) that were attacking a mysterious closed carriage, and now he’s about to open the door and reveal…

Well, no one, unless Thranduil Lasgalen gets a bloody move on. The set is ready, all dressed up to look like a dark, foreboding mountain road, the carriage’s there, everyone’s just standing there, and the omega’s not here.

“Fuck this,” mutters Thorin under his beard, but loud enough that Alfrid hears. “If he doesn’t turn up soon, I’m quitting.”

The director looks at Thorin with something like panic. “Don’t say that, please! That…. That’s not even funny, Thorin. He’s coming, I’m sure.” Thorin can almost smell the desperation coming off him. “You know how fussy omegas get with hair and makeup. Oh! See? There he is!” Alfrid is almost weeping with relief as the omega finally appears, wrapped in some sort of silk kimono, to protect his costume, no doubt. He’s wearing something sparkling on his brow, half hairband, half tiara, and a distinctly disgruntled look on his face. 

“Thranduil, my dear, there you are!” beams Alfrid, as though they haven’t been waiting for the better part of an hour. “And looking utterly gorgeous, of course. Perfection.”

Thorin thinks at this point Thranduil could have turned up wearing clown makeup and a potato sack and Alfrid wouldn’t have complained, but nevermind. Thranduil looks good enough, even with that sour expression on his face.

“Right, right, now, let’s not waste any time, people!” Alfrid claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. No one looks pleased at being told to hurry up when the omega’s the one who’s late. “Places. We’ll do a quick rehearsal, then…”

“No need,” says Thranduil. His tone could cut glass.

“Dear, I understand you must be very anxious to start, but this is a very important scene for the movie, do you understand? I need to make sure…”

“There’s no need. It’s simple, isn’t it?” Thranduil sounds like he wants to murder someone, and poor Alfrid looks stunned. “I get in there, he opens the door, we look at each other, I step out. I don’t see why we should need any rehearsal.”

“But…” sputters Alfrid. “Thranduil, sweetheart, that’s the gist of it, of course, but… I need you to put some feeling into it, you see? This is their first meeting. The audience has to feel that there’s something between them, that fate brought them together, that…”

“Yes, I’ve read the script,” snaps Thranduil. “We both know what we’re doing. We don’t need to waste any more time.”

Actually, he’s not wrong there, Thorin has to admit. This is the sort of thing he could do in his sleep.

Alfrid scratches his head, then looks around to the crew, which as a group looks very much in favour of getting on with things. He throws his hands in the air. “Fine. Fine, then, if that’s what you want. We’ll get the scene down now, then shoot the close-ups. No rehearsals.”

Thranduil doesn’t even bother to reply. He crosses the set in long, swift strides until he reaches the carriage. From up close, notes Thorin, he looks positively livid. Whatever happened to make him angry, Thorin hopes he’ll be able to get that into control quickly, or it’s going to be a rather drastic deviation from the script. 

The omega Thorin rescues is supposed to be terrified, not rabid.

In a quick gesture, the omega shrugs off his robe and hands it to an assistant, and Thorin’s eyebrows rise in surprise despite himself. The costume is… interesting. The top, what little there is of it, is mostly made of tiny pieces of shiny metal, held together by dozens of tiny chains. It covers the omega’s chest - barely - then stops, a good three inches at least above his navel. The bottom, on the other hand, starts startlingly low on the omega’s hips. They’re a kind of half-pants, half-skirt made out of a flowing, veil-like fabric and reminiscent of the costumes of egyptian belly dancers. There’s a wide belt, made out of the same kind of metal as the top, but that seems to be held up by wishful thinking more than anything else. All of the omega’s taunt flat stomach is exposed, as is the sharp angle of his hip bones. 

Thorin can’t help but stare and Thranduil sneers at him before turning to get into the carriage. If anything, the view from the back is worse. Much worse. The belt sits below the point where the rounded swell of the omega’s backside starts. A fraction of an inch lower and you’d see the cleft of his ass.

Thorin turns to Lickspittle with an incredulous expression on his face while Thranduil settles himself inside the carriage and shuts the door with a lot more venom than strictly warranted.

“Really, Alfrid? This is what passes for tasteful in this town, these days?”

The director grins. “Don’t worry, my boy, his father’s signed off on it. Besides, gotta get those bums on those seats somehow, right?”

For a second, Thorin almost feels a sense of sympathy for the omega. He’d be angry as well, if he had to wear something this ludicrous. Then again, that’s the whole point of omegas in movies, isn’t it? And if Thranduil doesn’t like it, well, he doesn’t have to do it. 

Besides, Thorin has other things to worry about. He knows what he’s supposed to do, knows his marks, but he has to get himself into the mood. He just hopes that when he finally opens that carriage door, the omega’s going to look a bit more amenable, or this is going to be a disaster. 

“Right! Everyone ready?” says Alfrid. “Maestro, some mood music, if you please.” The set violinist starts up on a soupy version of Hearts and Flowers, of all things, all maudlin vibrato. Thorin steels himself. As always, just before they start, he gets this terrible feeling of doom. This is going to go terribly, he just knows it. The scene is bad, the lighting’s all wrong, his costume feels awkward and heavy and he’s not at all in character. The entire thing feels ludicrous. He has this sudden instinct to run away as fast as he possibly can. Anything to avoid this. “And… lights. Camera. Action!”

And as always, those words somehow jolt him awake. It’s as though the world suddenly comes in sharper focus, and he remembers then, just as he does every time, just why he does this. 

He loves it.

The second he is acting, all his self-doubt, all his weariness, his disillusion, all of that disappears. The script isn’t silly anymore, it’s wonderful, and the character he plays feels more real than anything. He’s no longer Thorin, he’s Rudolf von Hentzau, deposed prince turned rogue protector of the weak, and there must be something precious in this carriage, because otherwise, why would it have been attacked? There were guards protecting it, although they’re all dead now, and they were well armed…

“Exactly, my boy,” enthuses Alfrid above the clatter of the camera. “Now get closer to the carriage. Look at it.”

It’s beautiful, a work of art, dark wood sculpted in delicate intricate weaving shapes (from up close, most of the decoration on the carriage turns out to be plaster, but those are unimportant details at this point in time.) But now that he looks at it, as beautiful as it is, it’s also… a cage? There’s a sliding lock on the door, as though to keep something inside. 

“Good. You’re intrigued. You’re wondering what kind of unimaginable treasure could be inside. Perhaps gold, precious stones? This would be great for you, help you and your comrades.” Alfrid takes a feverish breath. “Now. Open it.”

With a dramatic flourish, Thorin slides the door back, then stops, stunned.

“Perfect! Perfect, my boy! Just hold there for a second. You’re astonished. You can’t believe your eyes! You can’t even breathe!” Alfrid sounds like he’s about to have a stroke.

And Thorin… Thorin is genuinely, completely and totally stupefied. And he’s not acting anymore.

Slowly, the omega emerges from the corner where he’d been cowering. Half his gorgeous face is covered by an oblique shadow, mysterious and enticing. All you notice at first are his eyes, wide and shining with unshed tears, clear as the purest spring-water, so large they seem to take up half his face. Then, slowly, he shifts, and more of his face emerges from the shadows, a soft, high brow, the pure line of his nose, elegant, angular cheekbones. The omega’s soft, plush lips part for a second, as though he’s about to speak, then he seems to think better of it, frightened at the sight of an alpha, perhaps, and he cringes back slightly, lifting a graceful hand to his face in a futile protective gesture.

Thorin should do something, at this point, he’s sure of it. Reach out to the omega and pull him out, he remembers, dimly. Or perhaps someone is shouting that at him. It’s all very unclear. 

The only thing he’s certain of at this instant is that the creature in front of him is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and all Thorin can do for several long seconds is stand there, blinking, stupidly staring. It’s as though he’s completely frozen.

Then suddenly, mercifully, the spell holding him breaks, and he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing. He can hear the instructions Alfrid is still shouting at him.

He extends a hand to the omega. He’s supposed to be charming and debonair, he knows that’s what the script calls for, but he feels almost scared. He’s not sure the omega in front of him isn’t some kind of illusion, a dream that will dissolve into a wisp of smoke the second he tries to disturb it. 

But their fingers touch, and it’s as though it sends a jolt of electricity through Thorin’s veins. It’s almost shocking to feel warm flesh under his hand. The omega tries to pull away, but Thorin is not letting go of his hand and the omega is powerless under the alpha’s strength as he draws him close. The omega lets out a small cry of distress, and Thorin has to fight, suddenly, the instinct to protect, to embrace and soothe because he can’t bear the thought of causing any pain to this beautiful being.

He manages, just in time, to catch himself, and instead of doing what he wants, which is take the omega in his arms and just hold him, regardless of where they are or what they’re supposed to be doing, he does what’s in the script. He slips one arm under the omega’s legs and lifts him, putting him down so he stands on the ground just in front of Thorin, because this is where the next scene will pick up from.

“Cut!” yells Alfrid, and it feels like being drenched in a cold shower. He looks at his partner, and it’s no longer the wonderful, dream-like fairytale being he rescued, it’s Thranduil, with his now familiar smirk, looking at him with a slightly amused look in his eyes.

“You can let go of me now, Mr. Oakenshield,” he says, and Thorin realises with a jolt that his arm is still wrapped around the soft, supple flesh of the omega’s midsection. Thorin feels himself blush and pulls back, clearing his throat.

“Thorin! Thranduil!” The director has left his chair, and he’s embracing them effusively. “My boy! My dear! You were… This was…” Alfrid stops and wipes a tear from his eyes. To Thorin’s alarm, he looks genuinely moved. “My dear boys, there are no words. This was… this was magnificent, both of you!”

Thorin looks around. Everyone is wearing the same slightly stunned expression on their face. Then, somewhere, someone starts clapping. A second person joins in, then a third, then suddenly everyone is clapping, cheering, cat-calling enthusiastically. There’s a wolf-whistle, and Thorin dimly suspects that it might be Dwalin. He barely has enough presence of mind to give a little awkward bow in acknowledgment, and the clapping increases in intensity.

When he looks up a few seconds later, Thranduil is no longer standing by his side. He’s already gone to his chair, wrapped up tightly in his robe. Alfrid drags Thorin back to the camera, to discuss what they need to shoot next, the retake they need to do “just for good luck, my boy, just for good luck, because let me tell you, we can print this take as is and break the bank. I just hope to hell that damn cameraman didn’t screw up, I’ll have his neck if he did….”

Thorin tries to listen, but it’s difficult. He keeps finding his eyes drawn to the side, where Thranduil is perched primly on his chair. There’s something new in the omega’s eyes, a kind of begrudging acceptance, maybe. 

And another thing. 

A challenge.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the following days, Thorin has had time to get over the initial shock of seeing Thranduil in acting mode, and now he feels confident he can keep his cool even faced with the full brunt of it. It’s just technique, he’s decided, technique and nothing more, even though it’s damn good technique, that’s for sure. It’s like the omega has a hidden switch somewhere. One second he’s Thranduil, tall, elegant and extremely good-looking, of course, but distinctly human, with what is clearly a terrible temper and a generally less-than-impressed outlook on life. The next, he becomes this incredible creature, the embodiment of omeganess, a fragile thing of beauty shining with an inner light, so heartbreakingly vulnerable it’s as though you could reach out and touch his very soul. A creature that manages to be at the same time blisteringly sexy, with his perfect skin that seem to invite the touch of a hand and the graceful curving sway of his hips that bring to mind the absolutely filthiest things, and utterly innocent, pure, completely unaware of the effect each of his gestures has on everyone watching, as though all of this was totally involuntary and unpracticed, just an emanation of his pure omega nature. 

Of course, it’s nothing of the sort. It’s just acting. But it means Thorin has had to revise his opinion of the omega. Yes, he’s stuck-up, and yes, he clearly makes no effort to be pleasant in real life (except towards their director, of course, the omega is no fool, that’s for sure,) but he’s also a damn fine actor and a consummate professional. Apart from that first day, he’s always perfectly punctual, always prepared, and doesn't complain when there are technical problems or unavoidable delays. He takes direction well, is quick to adapt whenever there’s a last-minute change, and his ability to wear the most ridiculous costumes as though they were a second skin, managing somehow to make each one look better than the last, is astounding. And even though their relationship is by no means what you’d call cordial and they’re not even on first-name terms yet, he’s no longer quite as frosty to Thorin. Clearly, Thranduil is… well, not impressed, that seems almost impossible to achieve, but at least reassured that Thorin knows what he’s doing. 

They’ve even taken to discussing some of the scenes beforehand. Just a few words, at first, a simple exchange of information, “when you do this thing, I’ll do that”, this kind of thing, but gradually they’ve been sharing more as they sit next to each other in their folding chairs while the scenery is being fixed. They give each other their thoughts on what the undertone of the scene should be, ideas about angles, postures, the rhythm and the flow of their movements in between marks. At first, Thorin is wary of offering any kind of advice or criticism - the omega looks touchy enough as it is -, but it turns out when it comes to his work, Thranduil is perfectly capable of listening to advice, even if he won’t always take it. He’s not shy about giving it, either. If he thinks there is something Thorin could do better, he’ll say it, in no uncertain terms. Usually, Thorin doesn’t react too well to this kind of thing, especially not from an omega (not that many would dare), but for one thing, Thranduil always keeps this kind of thing private between them. Most of their conversations are too low for anyone to hear, and that makes it a lot more palatable. After all, it would be terribly embarrassing to be taken to task by an omega in front of everyone, but Thranduil never does that, and in turn Thorin extends him the same courtesy whenever he has any notes on Thranduil’s performance. 

And the second thing is Thranduil is usually right. When he says something isn’t working, usually Thorin has already noticed there was a snag somewhere. When he offers advice, it’s always valuable, even though there again Thorin won’t necessarily do as the omega suggests. But some days, he actually looks forward to hearing what Thranduil has to say, because when he’s floundering for some reason, Thranduil’s advice usually steers him in the right direction. 

Today is one of those days. They’ve already shot the scene a few times, but it’s not working. The director has decided it’s a lighting issue, and now the lighting director and him are busy setting up an entire new lighting scheme for this particular set, but Thorin knows that’s not the problem. It’s him. He’s not projecting what he ought to be projecting, and the more he tries, the worse it seems to get. 

He’s hunched up on his chair, staring at his clenched hands, trying to decide what to do about it, when he feels more than sees Thranduil sit down next to him, legs elegantly crossed as ever. Thranduil’s scent, sweet and fresh like just-cut grass or crushed spring leaves, fills the air, but Thorin is also used to that now, and his body barely reacts anymore. 

“You’re brooding again, Mr. Oakenshield.” Thranduil’s voice is barely higher than a whisper, and he sounds a little amused. 

“I’m not brooding, I’m thinking.”

“Oh, I’m quite sorry, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

A week ago, this kind of comment delivered in that mock-innocent tone, with that sardonic twist to Thranduil’s lip, would have infuriated Thorin. These days, he finds it rather amusing. 

“Stop being so rude, you damn omega,” he says anyway, pretend-upset, because he knows that will bring a smile to Thranduil’s lips. 

“Then stop being so stubborn. Do you want to hear what I think?”

“Does it matter whether I want to or not? You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”

Someone brings a cup of tea to Thranduil and he takes a demure sip. “Of course I am. I want to get this done this century, if you please, so I can change and go home. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but this costume is a fucking bitch to wear.”

This is another thing Thorin has had to get used to. Thranduil swears an awful lot, for an omega. When he’s talking to Thorin, at any rate. He’s never heard the omega swear in front of anyone else. It came as quite a shock the first time, when Thranduil accidentally tripped over the ridiculously long skirt of one of his costumes and would have gone careening into one one of the backdrops if Thorin hadn’t caught him in time. 

He’d expected the omega to thank him, not to mutter under his breath that this costume was a “fucking piece of shit” and he was going to “fucking slit that fucking designer’s throat.” Thorin was so shocked he’d almost dropped him to the ground. Proper omegas don’t swear.

But it’s just one of Thranduil’s quirks, and it’s true the costume he has on today can’t possibly be comfortable. It’s supposed to be a travelling outfit (the omega is trying to run away from our hero at this point in the story) so he’s more or less covered at least, but of course no omega ever wears a costume that isn’t sexy in the movies. His waist is cinched in a leather corset and his trousers, also leather, are skin-tight, and the whole thing must be dreadfully hot and constricting, especially under the bright klieg lights. 

Not that you could tell, of course, looking at Thranduil. “Might be a bitch to wear, but you look good in it,” says Thorin truthfully. 

“Yes, yes, never mind the costume. What I want to know is what’s going on in that thick skull of yours. Is it the Voice that’s the problem?”

Thorin has to fight his first instinct, which is to claim there is no problem and how dare the omega suggest any such thing, because Thranduil is right, of course. “Yeah. I just… the whole Voice thing. I can’t make it feel real, for some reason.”

In the scene they’re shooting, the hero uses his alpha Voice on the omega to stop him from running away. It’s all supposed to be very dramatic, with the omega falling broken at his feet and the hero immediately regretting what he’s done. It’s one of those alpha-omega things you often see in the movies because it looks very sexy, at least as a fantasy, and the audience just eats it up. 

In real life, Thorin would never dream of ever using his Voice. No decent alpha would. It’s as bad as rape, really, because if an alpha uses it to tell an omega to do something, the omega has no choice. It’s a biological imperative for them to obey, immediately, without any thought. 

It works best on unbonded omegas, supposedly. Mated omegas are sometimes, but not always, able to ignore an alpha’s Voice if it’s not their mate. It’s meant to be a way for alphas to protect omegas, according to science, especially omegas in heat, to stop them from hurting themselves or doing something stupid. In reality, it’s one of the biggest reasons why omegas can’t be given the same right as any other adults, why they’re considered irresponsible in the face of the law, why they can’t own property, and why they remain under the tutelage of an alpha their entire life. Even if they had the capacity to think for themselves as well as other designations, they have no way to defend themselves from an alpha Voice. The staunchest pro-omega activists can’t deny that.

Thranduil shrugs delicately and takes another sip of tea. “If that’s the problem, the solution’s easy enough. Just do it for real.”

Thorin turns to the omega, shocked. “What?”

“If you can’t make it feel real, don’t pretend. It doesn’t matter. It’s not as though anyone will hear, anyway.”

“What, you mean to say you want me to actually…”

“Yes.”

“Good lord, Lasgalen, are you mad?”

“Don’t act so shocked. I’m not asking you to knot me on film, am I?”

“Lasgalen!”

Thranduil turns towards him with a small sardonic smile. “Come on. It’s hardly such a big thing. I won’t be hurt by it. Don’t try to pretend you’ve never used your Voice on an omega before.”

“Of course I bloody well have not!” Thorin is struggling to keep his voice down. “Who do you take me for?”

Thranduil looks at him as though he’s not sure he believes him for a moment, then shrugs and shakes his head. “I’m almost tempted to believe you, you know. If there is in this world one alpha stupid enough…” He lets the rest of the sentence in suspense. 

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Just that… Sometimes, I think you genuinely believe all that bullshit about noble, virtuous alphas.”

“And what if I do? There’s nothing wrong with it, surely?”

“Nothing. I haven’t met a lot of decent alphas living in this town, that’s all, Mr. Oakenshield.”

Thorin is about to suggest that if Thranduil thinks all alphas in Hollywood are that bad, he can go find a place to live in Ohio or somewhere equally boring, when his train of thought is abruptly derailed by a tiny, blonde-haired figure, emerging from the shadows at full running speed and shooting straight into Thranduil. His - mercifully empty now - cup of tea goes flying. 

“Legolas?” the omega says, sounding stunned. The whole scene has created quite a stir. Everyone is now looking at the small boy buried in Thranduil’s arms. Even Alfrid, who a second ago was engaged in a deep discussion about gels and lenses, is staring owlishishly at the scene.

“What’s going on, Thranduil dear?” he asks.

“Nothing. I’m… I’m sorry.” Thranduil stammers, holding the boy close. Thorin doesn’t think he’s ever heard him stammer before, but then again, he’s never seen the omega look that surprised either. “This is my younger brother, Legolas. I have no idea what he’s doing here, Mr. Lickspittle. He’s supposed to be in school,” he says, with a very pointed look at the youngster who at least has the good grace to look suitably upset. 

“What? Your brother? Oh, yes, of course… How very nice.” Alfrid waves a hand vaguely in the air. “If you want to take him to the soda fountain or something, dear, you can. We’ll be busy here for a while, I don’t think we’ll resume filming for at least an hour. Oh, but do make sure to have one of the alphas accompany you, won’t you? Or your father will have my neck.”

“I’ll do it, Alfrid,” says Thorin, standing up. 

“Thank you, my boy, that’s mighty decent of you.” Alfrid smiles distractedly and gets back to his lighting. 

Thorin holds a hand out to Thranduil. “Shall we?”


	6. Chapter 6

There’s a small, brand new soda parlor on studio grounds, part of the new amenities Erebor is always adding. A few years ago, the whole studio was nothing but a few sheds and some dusty fields, but now it’s starting to look like a veritable small city. 

The soda parlor is quite nice, all chrome and shiny red lacquer, with a cheery red and white awning to keep the sun away from the counter and its high, round metal stools. You can get all kinds of soda and ice-cream floats there, and more importantly, it’s one of the places in the studio where it’s not considered improper for an omega to sit with an alpha that isn’t their mate. After all, they are outside and in full view of passer-bys, so it’s all very proper.

Thorin is slowly sipping an ice-cold ginger ale, leaning casually against the counter, and there’s a root beer vanilla float with whipped cream and a cherry on top of it slowly melting in front of the youngster perched on one of the stools. Thranduil is sitting next to him, his eyebrows knitted together in a worried expression, his mouth a straight line of tension. Neither of them have said a single word since they left the set. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s wrong, Legolas?” asks Thranduil finally. His tone is curt, but he sounds genuinely worried. 

The little boy seems to hunch up closer on himself. Even though his hair is shorter, and a shade darker, the resemblance between the two of them is unmistakable. Legolas’s eyes are just as blue, his features just as fine, although without any of the softness that characterises the omega. Then again, the boy can’t be more than ten years old, so he probably hasn’t started exhibiting any traits linked to his secondary designation yet. “I’m sorry, Ada, I didn’t mean to trouble you at work…”, he starts, before starting to sniffle again.

“Well, it’s too late for that, it’s done, now,” says Thranduil with a shake of the head. “So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Ada…” says the boy again, with a meaningful look towards Thorin. 

Thranduil sighs. “It’s quite alright, darling, he’s a friend.” Thorin’s slightly startled by that, although he does his best to hide it. He would never have guessed Thranduil thought of him as a friend. “This is Mr. Oakenshield, you’ve seen him in the pictures, haven’t you?”

The boy sniffles again but nods. “Yes. How d’you do, Mr. Oakenshield,” he mutters, and Thorin smiles back in a way he hopes is friendly. Even though he has two nephews, he’s not very used to talking to children. They make him vaguely uncomfortable. 

“This is Legolas, Mr Oakenshield,” says Thranduil. “As I said earlier, he’s my younger brother. And as far as I know, he’s supposed to be in school right now, aren’t you, dear?”

“Yes, Ada, I know, I’m sorry, it’s just....”

Thranduil sighs. “What happened?”

“I… I ran away.”

“I can see that, Legolas. Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

The boy looks down miserably as his melting float for a second, then up at Thranduil. “Ada, do you think I’m going to be an omega, when I grow up?”

Thranduil’s spine stiffens visibly and for a second, he looks stricken. Then he covers it up, puts one hand on top of the boy’s, stroking it soothingly. “I don’t know, darling. No one can tell, yet, you know that.” He pauses. “Why do you ask?” he says cautiously. “Did someone say something at school? Is that it?”

The boy nods. “Yes. Some older boys... “ He swallows. “They were talking about you. I didn’t like the way they were talking, so I asked them to stop, and then…. That’s when they asked. If… you know. If I was gonna be like you. They said I’d make a pretty omega, that maybe I’d look like you. They said that they would... that they would take care of me. That I could be their omega.”

Thranduil is still stroking the boy’s hand soothingly, but a flash of anger passes through his eyes, like sudden lightning. “How old were they, sweetheart?” he asks, making an effort to sound calm.

“A few years older than me.... Eight grade, I think. They had already presented. They were wearing alpha colours, all of them, and…” The boy turns to Thranduil, and his eyes are shining with tears. 

Thorin winces to himself. He knows very well what schoolboys are like. You can try all you can to tell them to behave, that they’re too young to be thinking of such things, the truth is the only thing anyone cares about is who’s going to be what. And anyone who’s a little smaller, or weaker, or simply prettier than the others gets teased mercilessly with the worst taunt there is for a kid - omega. Thorin can only imagine what it’s like when your brother is the most famous omega in the world. It can’t be fun.

“Darling, don’t worry,” says Thranduil soothingly. “No one can tell what you’ll be. And anyway, you’ll be fine, whatever you turn out to be. You’ll be perfect no matter what. I’ll love you, no matter what.”

The boy shakes his head. “No!” he says forcefully, almost shouting. “You don’t understand! I don’t want to be an omega, I don’t! I see how they treat you, what they say about you. I hate it! I’d rather die than be an omega!”

Thranduil opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes back. He looks absolutely devastated. “Darling…” he finally manages to stammer miserably.

Thorin clears his throat and jumps in. He has no idea what to say, but he feels like he has to try. “Look here, young man,” he says, trying to sound firm but avuncular. “Do you think that’s a very nice thing to say to your brother?”

“Mr. Oakenshield, thank you, but…” says Thranduil, flustered.

“Here’s the thing.” Thorin has started, he might as well finish. “We all worry about what we’re going to be, of course. But it doesn’t change anything in the end, does it? Besides, do you think those boys were right to talk about your brother like that?”

The boy shakes his head.

“And do you think your brother is worth less than anyone else just because he’s an omega?”

“Of course I don’t!” says the boy, affronted. “Thranduil is wonderful. I love him more than anyone in the whole world.”

“Exactly.” Thorin nods. Next to him, Thranduil has turned a rather pretty shade of pink. “So the way I see it, would it be so bad, if you were like him?”

The boy chews on his bottom lip. “I guess not,” he concedes. 

“There you go. Besides, there’s very little chance of you being an omega, given the fact you’re a boy. Now, why don’t you dry those tears and drink your float before it turns to soup?”

Thorin grins at the boy and mentally congratulates himself. That went a lot better than he expected. He looks up to wink at Thranduil, who’s staring at him as though he’s suddenly grown a second head. “See? All better now.”

“I… I don’t know what to say, Mr. Oakenshield,” says Thranduil. “Thank you.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright. Do you know, when I was his age…”

“Legolaaaaaaaaas!”

A piercing cry fills the air, cutting him off, and all three of them jump. A small, stern-looking middle-aged beta woman jumps into view, red in the face and very out of breath. 

“Legolas Lasgalen! There you are! What do you mean by running away like that, you naughty boy?”

Thranduil swivels round to face the beta. “It’s quite alright, Gertrude, he’s with me.”

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Thranduil. Good lord, this boy is going to be the death of me, I swear!” The beta, the boy’s nurse, its seems like, starts complaining in a torrent of words to Thranduil, and Thorin watches as the omega somehow manages to calm her down, procure an automobile, and send both the boy and his nurse on their way back to school, all in a matter of minutes. 

It leaves the both of them seated at the counter, in front of the sad remains of what once was a root beer float. They both stare silently at it for a while.

“D’you want me to order another one?” asks Thorin finally, with a rueful smile.

“No. I really shouldn't eat that, anyway. It’s terrible for my figure.”

“Your figure can take it. We can share, if you like?” 

The omega looks at Thorin. He looks more tired than Thorin has ever seen him, tired and a little sad, in makeup and costume designed for camera lights and not the harsh California sun. “Oh, after all, why not,” he says with a shake of the head.

The soda fountain boy brings them a fresh float, with two striped paper straws. 

“D’you want the cherry?” asks Thorin, handing it to him casually. 

Thranduil looks at it warily then shrugs. “I might as well,” he says, popping it in his mouth.

Thorin takes a sip. “So, that was your brother, was it?”

Thranduil smiles a little. “Yes. Legolas. He’s just turned nine.”

“It’s a difficult time for a child. What’s that thing he calls you? Ada, is it?”

Thranduil nods. “Yes. You see, Legolas’s mother died giving birth to him. I was the one who took care of him when he was a baby. He couldn’t say my name for the longest time, so that’s what he called me. And it… it stuck.”

“You can’t have been very old yourself, at the time.”

“Old enough. I was fifteen.” Thranduil is slowly stirring the drink with his straw, not drinking very much. He seems lost in thought. 

“You don’t have the same mother?”

“What?” the omega says, a little startled.

“You said ‘his mother’. You two don’t have the same mother?”

Thranduil shakes his head. “No. I’m afraid my mother left my father when I was very young. I never really knew her. All I know is she was a beta.”

“And Legolas’s mother?”

“An omega. Dead, now,” says Thranduil with finality. It doesn’t seem to be a topic he’s very eager to pursue. It could be the omega in question wasn’t properly bonded to his father, or some such problem. No matter what it is, Thorin thinks it’s probably best if he changes the subject.

“He seems like a very clever boy,” he says. That seems safe enough. “You two look very much alike.”

“Yes, everyone seems to think so,” says Thranduil absent-mindedly. Then he turns to Thorin, his eyes suddenly sharp. “What’s your opinion on the matter, Mr. Oakenshield?”

“What matter?” asks Thorin, slightly taken aback.

“Legolas’s designation. What do you think?”

“What do I think?... Well, surely, it’s too early to tell, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes you can tell,” says Thranduil darkly. “My father said he knew by the time I turned three. It was obvious I was going to be an omega, he says.”

“Now, you know just as well as me that that’s just superstition. There are plenty of delicate-looking children who turn out to be strapping alphas in the end, lots of boisterous little brutes that suddenly turn into cute little omegas when they present. You can’t tell for sure.”

“Yes, I know. But if you had to guess?” Thranduil’s tone is light, but there is something very serious in his eyes.

Thorin actually stops to think. He recalls the boy’s features, his build, the way he held himself. “Like I said, I think people are more often wrong than right when they guess. But if I had to say something…” He looks at Thranduil. “I’d say he’s an alpha.”

A smile flashes across Thranduil’s face, quick and bright. “So would I. Even though I know I shouldn’t say that. It’s bad luck, some people say.”

Thorin shakes his head. “No, that’s superstition as well, isn’t it? Besides, you’re not the child’s real mother. It’s only bad luck if the mother says it, isn’t that how it goes?”

“Yes.” Thranduil’s smile is a little wan. “But like you said, it’s nothing but a silly superstition, anyway.”


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the shoot goes well, at least by motion picture standards, which mean there is a reasonable number of accidents, a few broken bones (none belonging to anyone important, or at least anyone Hollywood thinks is important, like an actor, so that’s fine), and this time, most of the horse stunts go by without incident. Thorin is grateful. He’s never liked to see an animal suffer.

Anyway, he gets the feeling no one’s going to talk much about the action in this film, no matter how long it took to shoot. According to everyone who’s been on set or seen the rushes, it’s the relationship between the hero and the omega that everyone is going to care about. Thorin hasn’t seen any of it yet, but all reports say the film is smouldering hot. 

And one thing, at least, is certain. Those scenes with Thranduil have been a lot more interesting to film than romantic scenes usually are. In fact, for the first time in a long time, he’s felt genuinely pushed by another actor. He enjoyed that. 

It has been a while since he’s seen the omega. They did all his filming early, so he could go back to Greenwood Studios to work on another commitment, and Thorin had several more weeks left afterwards. Then there was the editing, the printing, all the rest of it, which took up a few weeks as well, although Thorin’s not involved in any of that. 

As he paces idly in the hallway of the hotel he’s supposed to pick up the omega from, for the premiere of The Falcon, he runs a quick calculation through his mind. All in all, it’s been two months, give or take, since he last saw Thranduil.

“Mr. Oakenshield, sir?” says a hotel page, a small round hat perched smartly on his head. “Mr. Lasgalen wants you to know the younger Mr. Lasgalen is ready, if you want to come up to the penthouse.”

Thorin nods and tips the groom, and heads to the elevator, hastily checking his reflection in the mirror to check his eveningwear is in order. He’s feeling slightly nervous, which is not unusual for him before a premiere, but this time, he feels like he’s more nervous about seeing Thranduil again after all that time than anything else, even though he’s not quite sure why. At the same time, this will be the first time he meets Oropher, Thranduil’s father, and he can’t help but be intrigued by that. Oropher is a formidable force in Hollywood and yet somehow, they’ve never met.

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse, which takes up the entire floor. It’s not where Thranduil lives, of course. Oropher Lasgalen has a famous estate in the hills named Greenwood, like his studio, a sprawling mock-tudor mansion where he gives celebrated star-studded parties. But this hotel is closer to Grauman’s, where the premiere will be held, and so that’s where all the dressing-up and hair and make-up and so forth has been set up by Erebor Studios. Thorin’s own room was lavish, but the penthouse is truly extravagant, all white marble with gold accents. Someone’s decorated the whole thing with thousands of white orchids, cascading from every available surface. The effect is stunning, if a little stifling. Thorin is let into the drawing room by the maid, and as he steps in, a tall, grey-haired alpha in evening dress stands up. 

It’s immediately obvious that this is Oropher Lasgalen. It could be no one else, the resemblance is so close. And yet at the same time, the two men could not be more different. Everything about Oropher radiates pure alphaness, just as Thranduil radiates pure omeganess. Oropher and Thranduil have the same tall frame, the same classically regular features, but all that is softness and charm in Thranduil is imperiousness and power in his father. The sharp angle of his brow looks severe rather than elegant, the sharp line of his jaw coldly handsome. 

“Thorin, my dear boy,” he says, and even his voice is similar to Thranduil’s, low and rich, except his tones are much sharper and infused with authority. “You don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you? I feel like I know you already.”

“Of course not, Mr. Lasgalen,” says Thorin with a small bow. 

Oropher tuts. “None of that Mr. Lasgalen nonsense, my dear boy. I do hope you’ll call me Oropher. After all, I think we’re destined to be great friends.”

“Thank you,” says Thorin. It’s quite an honor. And yet, there’s something a little disturbing in Oropher’s chumminess. It’s as though he assumes that because both of them are alphas, they’re naturally going to agree on everything. 

“Do sit down, Thorin my dear boy. Would you like a glass of something?” He gestures sharply to the maid. “Cleo, bring us two glasses of whiskey, if you please.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rise. There’s a prohibition going on, although of course there are many places you’ll find booze if you know how to look, but he doesn’t expect it to be quite so blatant. Oropher smirks. This is obviously someone who feels laws are for other people. “It truly is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Oropher says, surveying Thorin from behind half-lidded eyes. “I’ve heard so much from you from Alfrid, of course. And I’ve followed your career with great interest.”

“Thank you.” The maid is back with the drinks, and Thorin takes a sip to give himself a countenance, and sits down in one of the deep leather chairs. Oropher’s aura of power is so strong he feels vaguely threatened in a primal way. It feels very much the way archeologists describe ancient prehistoric society - he’s a younger, lesser alpha on a more powerful alpha’s territory. Everything is a test. Every gesture he makes, every word he says, everything is being taken into account, and if he’s found wanting, he’s as good as dead. This older alpha might be smiling at him now, but give him reason and he’ll tear Thorin’s jugular out in a flash. “It was an honour making a movie with Thranduil.”

“Nonsense, dear boy! The honor was all ours. And I think you’ll find this marks only the beginning.” Oropher tilts his head to the side. “You see, I’ve had the pleasure of watching the finished product, and let me tell you, my dear boy, I’m quite happy with it.”

Thorin nods in acknowledgment. He should feel flattered, yet for some reason he’s finding it hard to breathe.

“I probably shouldn’t be talking about this now,” continues the older alpha, “since of course I’m still in talks with Greyhame, but I’m fully intending to have you do at least a couple more movies with Thranduil. For Greenwood, this time, of course. We already have a few scripts and directors lined up.”

Thorin blinks. This is the first he’s heard of any of this. He has a generous contract with Erebor that specifies at least four movies a year. He’s never been loaned out to other studios, since he’s Erebor’s most profitable property by far.

Oropher lets out a bark of laughter. “Don’t look so surprised, my dear boy. You’ll see. I guarantee you The Falcon’s going to an absolute hit tonight. Ah, but look, there’s our lead omega now. How are you feeling, Thranduil?”

Thorin looks up and freezes. Thranduil has just walked in. He’s wearing a gold shift dress that stops just below his knees, a stunning creation in sequins and glass beads that shimmers with a deep, almost orange glow. The pattern appears to be a series of interlocking half-circles, like oriental fans laid one next to the other, made out of some sort of metallic silk brocade. It’s angular and geometric, and yet it flatters Thranduil’s shape in a way that seems almost unnatural, given how simple the dress appears to be. Of course, that’s all deception, Thorin can see it. The dress is anything but simple. Every fold, every detail of the design is there to make Thranduil look as good as he can possibly look, and the result is absolutely stunning. The omega, his face carefully blank under the soft makeup, looks as though he just woke up and slipped this on and still someone managed to transform into something extraordinary, into the most beautiful, most precious omega ever. It looks effortless, and yet Thorin, a practiced professional, can tell how much work went into it, how carefully Thranduil is holding himself to make the dress look as good as it does.

“Very well, thank you, father,” Thranduil answers softly. “Mr. Oakenshield, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“I…” Thorin’s throat feels dry. He takes a gulp of whiskey. “Likewise,” he manages. 

“That won’t do at all, my dears,” tuts Oropher. “I don’t think you two have to be quite so formal with each other, do you, Thorin? I’m sure the fans will like it a lot more if you two sound more chummy. How about you use each other’s first names?”

Thranduil bows his head. His hair has been carefully waved in the short marcelled waves that are so popular these days. The length is still here, but it has been gathered in a flat knot at the nape of his neck and covered in a jewelled golden net that manages somehow to call back to the features of his dress. “As you wish, father,” he says. His eyes have yet to meet Thorin’s.

It’s a little eerie. Thorin, so far, knows two sides to Thranduil: the beautiful, seductive image he projects when he’s acting, and his off-stage personality, an odd mixture of formality and abrasiveness, intelligent and foul-mouthed, with a funny streak Thorin learned to appreciate over the weeks they spent working together. But now Thranduil looks somehow different, utterly passive, vacant. It’s as though the core of his being has been scooped out, leaving only this pretty white porcelain doll, just as decorative as the orchids in the vases all around the room and just as inert.

Something about it leaves a bad taste in Thorin’s mouth, and he can’t quite shake his discomfort as Oropher talks to him some more about the projects he has in store for Thorin, genial and charming, totally ignoring Thranduil who merely stands, mute and silent, while the alphas finish their drinks, sprawled in their deep leather chairs. The omega only comes to life once, when Oropher offers Thorin a cigar, and he quickly and wordlessly crosses the room to pick up a cedar humidor he then presents to the alphas. Thorin finds it a little unsettling, especially when Thranduil then kneels quietly next to his father’s chair to light his cigar. Somehow, he’s glad he’s never really enjoyed smoking and therefore refused the older alpha’s offer, because he’s not sure he really would have liked to see Thranduil at his feet like that.

Oropher is witty and friendly, but there is something so oppressive in the room that Thorin is relieved when a studio employee finally arrives to tell them it is time for them to get on their way. Thranduil and Thorin will arrive in the same car, of course, that will please the photographers and the fans. It’s a brand-new ivory Rolls Royce Phantom. A convertible, for morality’s sake. An omega is not supposed to be alone with an alpha in a closed car, of course, not unless they’re a mated pair. It’s the kind of convention that grates on Thorin’s nerves, sometimes. He doesn’t like that society seems to think alphas can't possibly be trusted to keep their hands off an omega if they get the chance. He doesn’t like that society, in fact, largely turns a blind eye whenever an alpha does take advantage of an omega. It’s in their natures, they say. You can’t blame them. The omega’s guardians should have been more careful. After all, you can’t expect alphas to control their instincts, or behave like betas, can you?

As they start their long, slow crawl to the theatre, Thorin leans slightly closer to Thranduil, who’s sitting, perfectly poised, not moving an inch in order not to risk creasing his dress. “So… How do you want to play this one? Shall we give them the old razzle-dazzle?” he says in a low voice, just as he would when they were filming and they would consult each other about scenes, discreetly, so no one would notice.

Thranduil gives out a small huff of laughter, as if surprised by Thorin’s words, and suddenly there’s a twinkle in his eye, and Thorin almost sighs with relief, because this is the Thranduil he’s used to, the one he feels he knows, not the passive doll he has been all evening.

“I don’t know, but you better get it right the first time, we only have one take,” says the omega, his lips barely moving. “And this fucking dress is trying to kill me.”

Thorin grins despite himself. “Stop being difficult about your costumes, you damn omega, you look damn fine and you know it.”

“Fucking thing’s half-metal and itches like hell,” says Thranduil out of the corner of his mouth, waving graciously to the amassed fans on the side of the road. His words are inaudible to anyone but Thorin. “And it’s stupidly heavy.”

“Yes, well, my cummerbund’s on too tight and you don’t hear me complaining, do you? So what, are you going to take my arm like a good little omega?”

“Of course, how else could I possibly walk thirty feet without falling down on my ass?”

Thorin hides a laugh behind his hand. “In the shoes you have on, you could probably use the support, actually.”

“Mr. Oakenshield, I’m quite certain I could race you and win, heels or no heels.”

“We should do that,” says Thorin, giving a small wave to a gaggle of particularly excited fans. “Give them something interesting to photograph. And aren’t you supposed to call me Thorin, according to your father?”

Thranduil’s hand falls to his lap, softly, and it looks like someone has flipped a light off somewhere. His features are still fixed in a smile, but the sparkle in his eyes is gone, snuffed out. “Yes. Of course, Thorin. Please excuse me. I forgot.”

A shiver goes down Thorin’s spine. He’s not sure what happened, but he doesn’t want this. He wants the other Thranduil back again. He doesn’t want to sit next to this eerie doll again. He tries to keep his tone light, as though he hasn’t noticed any change, as though they were still joking with each other. “I don’t care what you call me, you damn omega. But if you think you can outrun me, a scrawny thing like you…”

“At least I don’t weigh half a ton. And I think my legs might very well be longer than yours.” Thranduil’s mocking tone is back, and Thorin could hug him.

“Okay, so that’s how you want to play it? Fine. As soon as they open the door, it’s on. First one to touch Louella Parson’s notebook wins.”

“Oh, it is on,” whispers the omega, as he starts gracefully waving again. “And I’m going to win, you’ll see.”


	8. Chapter 8

In the end, of course, as soon as they reach the red carpet, both of them easily slip on their practiced movie-star personas, like putting on a well worn uniform. Thorin is all smiles and debonair alpha charm as Thranduil takes his arm and walks demurely by his side in tiny steps, at a decent distance, of course. They’re not trying to make anyone think they’re a real couple, that would be taking it much too far. The fans screech, flashes go off, it’s all very familiar, even if it’s always slightly overpowering. A dizzying number of journalists ask him questions, which he answers the way he always does: the movie was great fun to make, he hopes the audience has as much fun watching it as he had filming it, no, he’s not involved with his lovely co-star, but they get on very well, the omega’s an absolute sweetheart. Everyone coos at the sweet way Thranduil answers the inane questions thrown his way: yes, this is all very overwhelming, but he’s very glad to have a kind alpha like Thorin by his side, and he’s so very happy to get a chance to thank his darling fans. 

When they do reach Louella, she giddily asks Thranduil something about ‘the absolutely stunning creation you’re wearing tonight, Thran darling, it absolutely must be French, is it Lanvin? Is it Poiret? You simply must tell!’, and Thorin almost but not quite misses the way Thranduil leans in to get closer to her, as though trying to hear her better, and in the process lets his hand, gloved prettily in gold lambkin, brush softly against the reporter’s spiral notebook. 

“I win,” the omega whispers under his breath as they pause once more for pictures before finally stepping into the cinema, and Thorin has to fight not to explode with laughter. 

Then someone claps his shoulder, and it’s Dwalin, looking very unlike himself in evening wear, and the two alphas greet each other, and the photographers ask for yet more pictures, and all in all it’s a long time before they all find themselves sitting in the theatre’s plush velvet chair. He’s not sitting next to Thranduil, of course (think of all the terrible things that could happen to an omega in the dark!). The omega’s safely by his father’s side.

The orchestra starts playing, the lights dim, the scrim curtain pulls open. And from the very first scene between Thranduil and him, it’s obvious the movie is going to be a triumph. You can feel it in the air, like an electrical current, this awed tension as the audience oohs and aahs and gasps with every beat. 

It’s usually hard for Thorin to watch his own performances. All he sees are his flaws. And his hypercritical eye tends to extend to his co-actors as well, which usually makes this kind of thing sheer torture for him. But even he has to admit there’s something interesting going on on the screen. And Thranduil…

He’d thought he’d been impressed, the first time he saw Thranduil in his full acting mode. But actually, he’d seen nothing. Just a fraction, a glimpse of what was going on. Thranduil wasn’t acting for him, or the rest of the cast, or the director, even. Thranduil was acting for the camera. Every angle, every posture, every glance, all of it was designed for the lense’s eye. 

Of course, Thorin also thinks about sight lines and how to place himself relative to the camera when he acts. But Thranduil, he now realises, is an absolute master at it. Every image shows an incredible understanding of light and composition and how to move himself in the best possible way, and Thorin’s sure of one thing: that’s not Alfrid’s doing. The nicest way to describe Alfrid’s cinematography would be ‘extremely competent’. It doesn’t begin to explain the absolute miracle going on on the screen in front of him.

When the film ends, Thorin feels a little dazed. The audience, though, is delirious. The two of them get a standing ovation as they stand up, then they get dragged to the small stage in front of the screen, and people thrust massive bouquets of flowers upon them that Thorin gallantly hands over to Thranduil. He does his best to keep his countenance while the omega, as he curtseys prettily and Thorin bows, complains behind his breath to Thorin that ‘the fucking things weigh a ton and what’s the point of having an alpha around if he’s not even going to do the heavy lifting’.

All in all, it’s by far the best movie premiere he’s ever attended.

A party is being held for them in the hotel, in the famous Lily Room, where the best orchestras in the country play, and they get another standing ovation as they enter - Thorin’s not sure how these things happen, most of the people there can’t possibly have been at the premiere, but he suspected it’s all arranged by the studio, somehow - and make their way to their table. Well, Oropher’s table, to be exact. He’s there welcoming them, looking every inch the proud father and imposing older alpha. There are two bottles of imported champagne chilling on the table and no one seems to think there’s anything strange with that. Alfrid and Gandalf Greyhame, the head of Erebor, are here as well as two or three other alpha executives Thorin knows vaguely, a financier, a famous millionaire entrepreneur-turned-filmmaker who’s only just finished filming his latest opus. It’s a veritable who’s who of Hollywood alpha power. 

Naturally, Thranduil is the only omega at the table. He sits and looks pretty while the alphas pour the champagne and drink a toast. The diamonds in his necklace and bracelets glitter like stars in the warm electric light, and Thorin finds his eyes drawn again and again to the delicate line of the omega’s neck, although he does his best not to be too obvious about it. 

“Thorin, my dear boy,” says Oropher genially, his eyes shining with amusement (it’s possibly Thorin hasn’t been quite as discreet as he wished to be), “why don’t you take my son out to the dance floor? Us old men have a lot of boring business to discuss.”

As if on queue, the band strikes up a new song, a slow, sweet, fox-trot. Thorin stands, bows slightly to the omega, grinning, and holds out his hand. This, he knows he’s good at. He’s always been a good dancer, ever since his vaudeville days where he sometimes filled in as a partner for a dance act whenever someone was needed.Thranduil rises, graceful as a reed, to take his hand and everyone in the club turns to look at them as they make their way forwards. As they reach the floor, Thorin catches the omega’s eye.

“Are you any good at this?” he says, his lips barely moving.

“Try me,” comes the whispered answer, and there’s a challenge in the curve of his lip. Thorin grins and throws out his arm, sending the omega twirling gracefully, then draws him back close to begin a standard weaving figure. 

His answer comes soon enough. The omega is not good, he’s excellent at this. Thorin doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. The omega seems to be good at everything. The two of them are in perfect sync as they slowly make their way across the dancefloor in quick, gliding steps. The way the omega leans back emphasizes the line of his neck again, and for a few golden moments, Thorin is entirely carried away, entranced. He forgets they’re in public, forgets most of this is simply a publicity stunt, forgets there’s anyone else there, in fact.

For a few seconds, they’re just an alpha and an omega, dancing in each other’s arms. All the world is a blur, apart from the music and the pure icy blue of Thranduil’s eyes, shining behind long darkened eyelashes. Thorin is not even thinking about the dance steps anymore, his feet just seem to glide into place naturally, and somehow the omega follows him just as naturally, as though both of them are dreaming the same dream.

The music stops with a flourish. Thorin’s heart is beating much too fast. He feels slightly dizzy. He feels like he doesn’t want to open his arms, doesn’t want to let the omega go. He just wants to stay there, in this moment. Thranduil is looking up at him with an expression he’s never seen before, a kind of wide-eyed wonder. There’s a strange uncertainty in the curve of his mouth. It almost looks as though he’s scared. His breathing is slightly uneven. 

Then someone starts clapping, and Thorin brutally comes back to himself as the entire club gives them another standing ovation. He bows, Thranduil curtseys, and Thorin notices Thranduil’s hand is trembling a little in his as they make their way off the dance floor. He tries to look at the omega’s face, to see if he’s alright, but Thranduil’s eyes won’t meet his. 

But when Thorin looks up, he sees Oropher is staring at them from his seat, a calculating, smug look on his face.


	9. Chapter 9

Oropher Lasgalen doesn’t waste any time. Barely a week passes before Thorin is sent a contract and a script, with a note from Greyhame saying he’s already signed off on it and it’s up to Thorin.

When the papers arrive, he’s at home, a sprawling Spanish style one story house that’s ostentatious enough that it looks fitting for his status, yet simple enough that it doesn’t require a full staff. He has a day maid, a gardener, a chauffeur to take care of his cars, and that’s it. As a bachelor alpha, he doesn’t require much more, really, and he likes to keep his lifestyle simple. He hires more staff when he needs to entertain, but that’s not often.

Inside, the house is richly decorated. He likes dark, heavy furniture and clean modern designs, the kind that just triumphed at the Salon des Arts Décoratifs in Paris in the Fall. There’s a lot of stark geometric shapes, startlingly modernistic, a lot of sweeping lines and burnished copper, expensive wood and ivory inlays.

The papers sit on the brand new desk he’s only just bought, a squat square slab of shining ebony almost brutal in its simplicity. Thorin sits in the matching chair, resting his chin on one hand, and considering the envelope warily, as though it was a coiled snake, ready to bite. He’s feeling deeply conflicted. 

On the one hand, part of him wants nothing more than to work with Thranduil again. Since the premiere, he hasn’t stopped thinking about him. He misses him, which is ludicrous, given they’ve hardly spent any time together at all. But whenever he thinks of something funny, he gets this sudden urge to tell the omega to see if that will make him laugh. He wants an excuse to joke with him again, to hear him swear like a sailor under his breath as he lowers his eyes demurely in the perfect image of the perfect omega. He wants an excuse to dance with him again, because that was the most fun he’s had in years.

It’s not that he’s falling for the omega. He never falls for omegas. Doesn’t really fall for anyone, really. He just likes Thranduil. Yes, when they were dancing, there was that unnerving moment of grace between them, but that was probably nothing. Just his alpha instincts reacting to a beautiful, available omega, nothing more. Simple biology. But he doesn’t want to bite him, doesn’t want to mate him, doesn’t even want to fuck him, really, to be crude about it. 

Well, that last part might not be entirely true, because he’s had dreams about that, very pleasant dreams, but again, that’s just biology. But mostly, he just wants to talk to the omega, not drag him to bed. So it can’t possibly be love, can it? They just get along well, that’s all. And that makes the prospect of doing another film with him very tempting.

On the other hand, he’s very wary of accepting any offer from Oropher. He’s only exchanged a few words with the older alpha, really, he wouldn’t say he knows him enough to have an opinion, but he has a bad feeling about him. Something about Oropher makes him deeply uneasy, and he’s not sure why.

One thing is certain, though. Staring at the envelope is not helping him reach any kind of decision. He takes a deep breath and picks up the script. It’s more important than the terms. After all, terms can be discussed. But a bad script cannot be saved.

The script is called Fallen Omega, and it’s good. Very good. Then again, it has little merit, because the story is a classic. Technically, it’s a remake: the story has been filmed before, in the early ‘teens, when the movies were barely out of their infancy, but it was called Omega of the Camellias at the time. It wasn’t a very faithful adaptation of the French play it’s based on: both the titular omega and her alpha were female and besides, the omega part was played by a beta anyway. But in the original, the omega was male.

Valentin Gautier, the character is called. A beautiful yet tragic courtesan. Thorin will play Armand, the idealistic young alpha the courtesan falls in love with despite his better judgement. It all ends in tragedy in the end, naturally, Valentin sacrificing himself to save the alpha he loves from the shame of being associated with a fallen omega, accepting a bond-bite from a rich nobleman before dying tragically of sadness and bond-sickness in Armand’s arms.

He can just see Thranduil bitching about that now. Bond-sickness isn’t a real thing, more of a romantic notion: omegas wilting away, broken-hearted, because they can’t be with their true mate. In real life, all you need to bond an omega is a bite to some very specific glands only they have, during a heat. That’s all it takes for them to be mated. It doesn’t matter if the omega is willing or not, in love with someone else or not.

Bond-sickness, true mates, all the rest of it, all that’s just folklore and fairy tales, and Thranduil, Thorin has noticed, has very little patience with this kind of sentimental nonsense. Nonetheless, Thorin feels certain he’ll play the helpless pining omega to perfection. In fact, imagining Thranduil in the role is what makes up his mind for him: the omega was born for this. And Thorin wants to be there when it happens, even though this role will be a departure for him. There’ll be no action, no swashbuckling of any kind. But after all, Thorin has been meaning to branch out into more artistic types of films, and this is the perfect occasion. 

There’s also the fact that if he says no, some other alpha will play that role opposite Thranduil, and Thorin doesn’t like that idea one bit.

He takes a look at the contract and lets out a low whistle. The terms are… exceedingly generous. Thorin is one of the best-paid alphas in the business, but this tops any offer he’s ever received before. 

That decides it, then. He’s not doing this film because of Thranduil, that would be ridiculous, even though it’s an incentive. He’s definitely not doing the film because of Oropher Lasgalen. He’s doing the film because it’s a good script and the money is right. 

Surely no one can find anything to say about that.

They start filming right away, less than a month after he gets the offer. And even though it’s an unfamiliar studio and he doesn’t know anyone there, Thorin feels at home at Greenwood immediately. He’s so pleased with the project he doesn’t get any of his usual pre-filming jitters. He’s uncharacteristically cheerful, in fact, well-disposed towards everyone he meets. 

It might have something to do with the fact Thranduil is the one showing him around, most of the time. It seems like he has a lot more freedom in this place. It is, after all, Oropher’s studio. One could only imagine what might happen to anyone who’d try anything funny with Thranduil.

Not that Thranduil acts like the boss’s kid. In fact, if anything, he’s a lot less standoffish than he was at Erebor. Then again, everyone seems to know him very well and to regard him with a kind of proprietary pride. He’s theirs, in a way. This is where he made his first movies, practically where he grew up. And he seems genuinely happy to be sharing it all with Thorin.

“Do you see that lot over there?” the omega says one morning as they take a walk while the set is being fixed. He points to a large empty space. “That’s where we filmed most of Arabian Nights. The world’s biggest sandbox. I think every cat in a 10 mile radius had decided it was the perfect place to do their business. We had to comb the sand before filming, just in case. It was dreadful. I still have sand up in some very uncomfortable places from that set.”

“Nice young omegas don’t talk about their butt crack, Thranduil,” says Thorin in a sanctimonious tone, and Thranduil snickers. “Actually, I think I remember the posters for Arabian Nights. You looked very… alluring in them.”

“I looked like a common streetwalker, you mean. With all the money they spend on costumes, you’d think they could at least come up with something that covers my midriff once in a while.”

“Sheherazade’s midriff can’t be covered. That’s a cardinal sin, in movies. I think it’s against the law, in fact. Don’t you know anything?”

“I know I’m glad I don’t have to spend this shoot virtually naked with a stone glued to my navel, certainly. Although corsets are also singularly unpleasant to wear.”

“Do you ever do anything besides complain about what they make you wear?”

“Well, to be honest, it’s probably my main source of entertainment. That, and watching you attempt to act like a civilised parisian alpha. That is also quite funny.”

“Shut you, you damn omega, I’m doing my best. I’m not Lionel bloody Barrymore.”

“You make a much more interesting Armand. I don’t think I could fall for Lionel Barrymore. Too… bloodless.”

“Oh, so you like your alphas rough and rugged, do you?”

“I like my alphas at a safe distance and well behaved, thank you very much,” says Thranduil in a haughty tone, sounding like a snotty society belle. “Please do keep that in mind, Mr. Oakenshield, will you?”

“Oh, of course, your highness. Wouldn’t want to offend you, your highness.” Thorin bows mock-respectfully and grins when Thranduil snickers again.

“We should get back on set, Thorin,” says the omega, suddenly serious. “We’ve been alone together too long.”

“We’re outside, in full view. No one can object, can they?”

“Still. They’ll be needing us soon. We should go back.”

It’s a shame, but it’s true. They can’t very well play hooky all day, they have a job to do. Reluctantly, Thorin turns back towards their set.

There’s a familiar tall figure standing next to the camera, talking to the director, a stern-looking German who seems genuinely fond of Thranduil. Thorin’s jaw tightens reflexively, and he can feel Thranduil suddenly stiffen next to him. It’s Oropher. 

“Good morning, Father,” says Thranduil, his voice suddenly carefully blank. Oropher barely looks at him. He tilts his head and smiles at Thorin, all superficial charm.

“Thorin, my dear boy. I came to see how things were moving along.”

“Good morning, Oropher. Everything’s going well, I believe, but I’m not in the best place to judge. What does Erich say?”

“He’s very pleased. Then again, this is exactly what I expected from you.” His smile stays in place, but his eyes turn cold. “Tell me, Thorin, where were you with my son, just now?”

“Thranduil was showing me around the studio. Don’t worry, Oropher, it’s all perfectly above board. I wouldn’t do anything to impinge upon his honor.”

“His honor I couldn’t care less about. His reputation, on the other hand… Please try to be careful, Thorin, we can’t have his image tarnished, can we?” Oropher claps Thorin’s arm in a friendly warning. “Is that clear?”

“It is,” says Thorin, although actually what he’d like to say is that they weren’t doing anything wrong, that Oropher has no reason to say anything like that. But next to him, Thranduil is utterly still and silent, his face pale as a sheet, and Thorin doesn’t want to risk making it worse.

“Good man. I know I can count on you. Now… I’m sorry about all this. I know what it’s like to be a young alpha, that’s all. And we don’t want any slip-ups, do we? I do hope you’re not sore about it?”

“Not at all,” says Thorin. He is, in fact, furious about this. But there is very little he can say.

“Good man,” says Oropher again. “Say, just to prove to you we’re alright, how about you come over to Greenwood tonight for a drink? I’ll tell my son’s chauffeur to take you as well. How about it?”

“I…” Thorin stops, not knowing what to say. It feels like a bad idea. He wishes he could talk to Thranduil about it, but he’s trapped.

“Come on.” Oropher smirks. “I won’t take no for an answer, young man.”

“I would be delighted, of course,” Thorin hears himself say.


	10. Chapter 10

The rest of the day is a dismal failure.

Everyone is trying their best, but something is just off. First the camera, then Thranduil’s costume, then a part of the set chooses that moment to remember it’s not actually a marble column at the Paris Opera but a painted piece of cloth on a wooden frame, and collapses.

And through all of it, Thranduil is silent, pale and wide-eyed, and Thorin is almost glad the movie gods have decided to visit every single possible calamity on them, because he doesn’t think Thranduil could possibly act in this state.

Finally the director, Erich, comes over to them. “I think that’ll be it for today, boys,” he says in his heavily accented German. He’s a sharp-featured alpha, bald, with a small moustache that makes him look slightly villainous, but he’s actually quite nice, if a little shy. “Time to give up. We’re losing the light. Why don’t you go change, Thranduil? You must be eager to get out of that corset.” 

Thranduil, who likes him as well, tries to smile in response, but it’s hollow. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Thorin tries to leave with the omega so he can talk to him, ask him what's wrong, but the director grabs his arm and stops him. 

“A word, Thorin, if you please?”

“Oh. Of course?” 

Erich looks at his feet, as though searching for the right words, and when he looks up at Thorin, his eyes are worried. “Listen. I don’t know if I should be telling you this. But… I thought I should warn you.”

“What is it?”

“Thranduil’s father, Oropher…” The name sounds strange and unfamiliar, the way Erich is pronouncing it. “He’s invited you to his house, hasn’t he? Greenwood.”

Thorin nods. “Yes. For drinks.”

“I…” the director hesitates again, then speaks. “I think you should be careful, Thorin.”

“Why? About what?”

“Just… be careful around him. You don’t want to get too close to him, or his friends. That’s all.”

“What? You can’t leave it at that! What do you mean?”

Erich looks at him, his eyes stern. “I meant what I said, Thorin. And maybe nothing will happen and you’ll think ‘oh, Erich was just being weird’, and if that’s the case, good. Just… keep it in mind, that’s all.”

Be careful. The words keep ringing in Thorin’s ears as he gets out of makeup and costume, even though he’s not sure what exactly the director meant. Between that and the strange uneasiness he feels every time he sees Oropher, he’s not looking forward to the visit, exactly.

But when he gets out of his dressing room, Thranduil’s chauffeur is waiting for him, dashing the vague hopes he was entertaining of finding some reason to cancel. He can’t think of a way to get himself about this.

“Mr. Oakenshield,” says the beta. “Mr. Oropher asked me to pick you up. Mr. Thranduil is waiting in the car, if you please.”

In the car, Thranduil is silent, and Thorin doesn’t dare say a word. The omega is staring out the window, his face turned away, his eyes unmoving. The sky darkens and light from the streets seep in, outlining his profile in flickering shades of amber, white, red. The car is climbing the winding roads up to Beverly Hills, and the sun keeps fading away.

When they get to Oropher’s estate, it’s gone so dark that the house is barely visible. It doesn’t matter much. Thorin knows what the house looks like, with its high eaves and its patrician Tudor lines. Everyone knows what this house looks like.

Thranduil leaves the car without a word, gliding almost noiselessly along the white-pebbled path that leads to the front door. Thorin follows, uncharacteristically nervous. He never is, in situations like this. He knows how to do this, after all. This kind of socialising has always been part of his job.

The door opens before they reach it, and it’s Oropher, standing there, smiling genially, and suddenly it’s easier. Thorin knows his role in these situations. He can play it to perfection, if he puts his mind to it. He’s the movie star, charming and articulate, self assured and friendly. The mask settles on him like an old, well worn overcoat that falls just right around his shoulder.

He grins back, greets Oropher, they exchange a handshake and a few friendly platitudes about the drive there. Smoothly, seamlessly, like a pair of well-oiled automatons, they go through the expected motions: Oropher invites him in, Thorin comments about the beautiful interior, full of beautiful exotic objects, some from China, some from Japan, it looks like, and Oropher looks suitably pleased even though he dismisses it all as his decorator’s doing. They move to the drawing room, where Oropher makes Thorin and himself drinks. It would all be perfectly pleasant if there wasn’t the weight of Thranduil’s silence like a black hole in the middle of the room. Thorin doesn’t think Oropher has even glanced at the omega since they got there. Thorin, on the other hand, is finding it impossible to ignore him. His eyes keep flicking to the omega’s, trying to understand why he looks so tense, so scared.

Oropher notices. “Don’t just stand there, Thranduil,” he says with a flick of the wrist. “Go see if your brother has had his dinner. He wanted you earlier.”

“You don’t need me?” says Thranduil with a start, sounding surprised, sounding relieved.

“No. Run along.”

Thranduil goes to leave, his steps short and hurried. He pauses a second at the door, his hand on the polished wood, as though hesitating. “Will you need me later, father?” he asks, his voice low and flat.

“We’ll see. Now go. Make yourself useful.” Thranduil disappears and Oropher shakes his head. “Omegas. Useless, aren’t they, unless an alpha’s there to tell them what to do.”

Thorin clears his throat. “I don’t know,” he says, a little tentatively. “I think Thranduil is rather resourceful, myself.”

Oropher raises an eyebrow, amused. “On a movie set, yes. He’s been well-trained. But outside that… he remains an omega, I’m afraid. Not a single coherent thought in that pretty head of his.”

It’s not true, Thorin wants to say. It’s not true, can’t you see how smart, how brilliant he is? Can’t you see that what he does on film is art he creates with his body, with his very being? Can’t you see that’s genius?

He opens his mouth to speak, unsure where to start. At that very second, the telephone rings.

“Ah. I have to take this, I’m afraid,” says Oropher.  
“Business. You know how it is. I’ll only be a minute.” He gets up and smiles, friendly and hospitable. “I’ll be in my office. Feel free to take a look around the house, if you want. Most people seem to enjoy that.”

Thorin nods vaguely back. Oropher goes, and he’s alone, and yet somehow the tension hasn’t left the room. He goes up to look at the knick-knacks strewn about the room, beautiful works of art, curiosities. The interior of Greenwood is just as splendid as he’s always been told. Yet it’s stifling, and Thorin has the urge to move, to do something to relieve the tension he feels. Following that impulse, he leaves the room. Oropher said it was alright to wander, after all, didn’t he?

Greenwood is a succession of wide, wood-panelled corridors, from which you can look into beautiful, empty rooms. Another sitting room, a library, what looks like a smoking room, an interior garden. It’s all exquisite. Everywhere, on every wall, there’s art, modern mostly, perfectly to Thorin’s taste, and he looks at it with appreciation.

Then something catches his eye, a large framed photograph, at the end of one of the corridors, above a small lacquered half-moon table where there’s a slender vase bearing a single white orchid.

It’s a picture of Thranduil, taken from the back. His face is turned away, invisible in the shadows, but it’s unmistakably him. The long blonde hair falling over the figure’s back, the build of the body, the paleness of the skin make it obvious. His arms are stretched over his head, the wrists bound together with a single strand of black velvet ribbon, so dark the coils falling from the knot almost look like blood running down his arms.

He’s entirely naked. In the stark black and white contrast, every line seems magnified. The long curve of his spine, graceful and elegant. The soft hourglass of his waist, small enough at its narrowest point it seems to invite hands to measure it. And below, the perfect, peach-like shape of his buttocks, startlingly bare above long legs, straight and strong like twin young trees as he stands on the tip of his toes, reaching up in one long, graceful line, like a ballet dancer or a slave tied up for auction, it’s hard to know which.

Thorin’s seen many nude pictures, of course. In fact, he’s seen many that were a lot more explicit than that. Pornographic, even, the kind people share under the table under the euphemistic name “French postcards.” But this, to him, is a lot more shocking. This isn’t some random pretty omega spreading their legs, this is Thranduil. He’d know him anywhere. 

He feels like he should look away and yet he can’t. He’s seen Thranduil in all manners of undress, given how revealing some of his costumes are, but this is different. Whenever he’s had a half-naked Thranduil on set, they were working. There was something strangely aseptic about it. Even when he clutched Thranduil to his own naked chest, or kissed his offered lips, it was all weirdly asexual. His mind was on camera angles, on marks, on whatever the script called for. He never just stopped and stared at Thranduil’s shape. It would have been… well, impolite, for one thing.

Yet now he’s staring. The picture must be three foot high, it’s utterly beautiful, the composition, the light, the contrast, all of it exquisite. But Thorin can’t keep lying to himself. He’s not admiring a work of art. He’s staring, with pure lust, at Thranduil’s naked ass. 

“Do you like photography, Thorin?”

Thorin jumps. He was so absorbed he hadn’t noticed Oropher just behind him.

He clears his throat. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He shifts slightly, hoping the distinct tightness in his trousers isn’t too visible.

“This one is one of mine,” says Oropher.

Thorin looks at him, startled. “Really?” he asks. It’s such a sensual picture that it is more than a little disturbing to think the omega’s father could have taken it.

Oropher smiles, Sphinx-like. “Of course. I would never let anyone else take a nude of Thranduil, naturally. Nor would I let them be printed anywhere. But this one is quite attractive, isn’t it?”

“Uh. Yes. Quite attractive,” says Thorin. He’s feeling very uneasy.

“I have some more, if you’re interested. Some… even less suitable for publication, in fact.” Oropher’s eyes glint in the half-light. “Would you like to see?”

“I…” Thorin’s throat is dry. Some base, prurient thing in him wants to say yes. Wants to see all there is to see. Wants to see Thranduil naked in every possible position, wants to see him on all fours, legs spread, presenting his most private parts like a cheap whore. 

But he can’t. It feels like betrayal.

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s… not really my kind of thing, I suppose..”

Oropher smiles paternally and claps him on the back. “I forget how young you are, sometimes, my boy. But that’s part of your charm, I suppose. Your boyish ingenuity.”

“I…” Thorin starts, then stops. He has no idea what to say to that. He’s not sure he shouldn’t be offended.

“Come now, dear boy, I don’t mean this in a negative way. I’m just surprised someone like you, with the opportunities you’ve had, would blush at an omega’s backside.” Oropher smiles, and somehow it reminds Thorin of a shark, a wolf. Something deadly and bloodthirsty. “But if you’re not in the mood for more pictures… would you care to see the vault, perhaps?”

“The vault?”

Oropher smiles again, and this time it’s warm and genial. For a second, Thorin wonders whether he didn’t imagine the earlier predatory edge to Oropher’s expression. Perhaps he’s being paranoid. But there’s something in this house that feels wrong to him, even though he couldn’t point out anything in particular. “The vault. I have a collection of all of Thranduil’s films. Would you like to see?”

Thorin nods, and follows Oropher as they make their way through the long wood-panelled corridors of the house. Occasionally, Oropher points out a specific painting on a wall, a sculpture, and tells Thorin about it. Thorin isn’t really listening. He keeps thinking of that picture, Thranduil’s naked shape, his bound wrists. How could his own father take a picture like that? And worse, why would he display it so prominently in his house for all to see?

The vault is a small, thick-walled room, cool and dark, attached to the back of the house. There are metal shelves on both sides. And on the shelves, canisters of fills, carefully arranged and meticulously labelled. There are dozens.

Thorin whistles under his breath. “There are a lot more than I would have imagined.”

“Well, Thranduil has been making at least five films a year for almost eight years, remember. And they’re all here. All the original negatives, all the interpositive masters. The room was built specially. After all, this medium of film we work in… It’s fairly dangerous stuff, isn’t it?”

Thorin nods. He knows the stories just as well as everyone else. Film stock is made of celluloid, a flexible plastic which is ideal for holding the silver salts that hold the photographic image. But it’s also a variant of nitro-cellulose, originally developed as an explosive. Nitrate film stock, as the technicians call it, is beautiful, but it’s deadly. If the temperature rises too much, if one spark hits it, if the film stops for one fraction of a second too long in the projector, exposed to the heat of the carbon arc light, it burns. It burns at a temperature of more than 3000 degrees, so strongly that nothing can put it out. Even dousing it in water is useless: nitrate film, when it burns, produces its own oxygen. It can burn underwater.

That’s why all projection booths are equipped with steel curtains that come sliding down automatically if the temperature rises above a certain point, locking the burning film - and the unfortunate projectionist, in some cases - in the small room, away from the public. That’s why movie studios keep their films in vast cool vaults, as fireproof as it’s possible to make them, with the same kind of thick walls and paper-thin roofs you see in firework factories. From a chemical standpoint, there’s not that much difference between a film reel and a bomb.

The air is cold in the vault, and Thorin shivers. Or perhaps it’s the thought of all that film that makes him uneasy. He was in a fire, once, in a theatre he was playing in, a fire started, in fact, by a faulty movie projector. It was before the war, and at the time there were none of the safety features you find these days. Thorin had just ran away from home to join the vaudeville troupe he would end up spending the best part of his late teens with.

As far as theatre fires go, this one was fairly unremarkable - barely impressive enough to make the national press. Nothing like the great conflagrations that marked the turn of the century, the Bazar de la Charité, the Iroquois theatre. All the patrons managed to get out safely. The only casualty was the projectionist, a kindly, serious-minded old beta that Thorin liked to play cards with on occasion. But the memory of that flash of light, that inextinguishable flame still remains fresh within him.

Oropher gestures at the amassed film canisters. “This, I like to think, is my legacy. This is my gift to the world. Years from now, when we’re all long dead, these films will survive. People will be able to see what I’ve achieved.”

Thorin frowns. “What Thranduil achieved, you mean.”

Oropher scoffs. “You don’t really think that, do you? Thranduil is my creation, Thorin, make no mistake about it. I made him, in more ways that one. After all, he’s only an omega. On his own, he’s nothing. I made him what he is.”

Oropher takes a step closer. The metal shelves are digging into Thorin’s back. He can smell the film, a faint, unpleasant odor, under the sharp alpha scent of Oropher. He feels trapped. “Perhaps,” he says, even though he doesn’t agree, not at all. Thranduil’s talent, his genius, that’s his own, surely. He owes that to no one, not even his father. 

Oropher turns to point out a few specific films, recites their box-office as though they were his personal achievements. Meanwhile Thorin tries to gather his courage. He feels like he ought to say something in Thranduil’s defense. He’s not sure what, but he feels like he should. “Listen here, Oropher, old chap, I really don’t think-”

There’s a sound behind him and he stops. It’s Thranduil, standing by the door to the vault, in a simple shift dress, white and flowing. His eyes meet Thorin’s, briefly, and there’s a flash of something, like a plea, before he lowers them to the ground demurely.

“I’m sorry to disturb you and your guest, Father. I just wanted to tell you dinner is ready, if you wish to eat?”

“How about it, Thorin my boy?” says Oropher, clapping Thorin’s shoulder. “You must be starving, a strapping young alpha like yourself. Would you like to stay for dinner?”

Thorin throws a quick glance at Thranduil again. He really can’t stand to see him like this, like he looks every time Oropher is in the same room as he is, a pale shadow of himself, an emotionless obedient wax doll. 

And he sees - or he thinks he sees, it’s so subtle he’s not even completely sure he didn’t imagine it - the omega shakes his head minutely, his lips tense briefly. No, he’s saying. Don’t do this.

“I’m very sorry, Oropher, I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.” It’s a lie, but right now, Thorin would do anything to get out of that place. And it’s the right thing to do, he sees it immediately, because something relaxes imperceptibly in Thranduil’s face.

“Do you? What a shame. Next time, then.”

“Yes,” says Thorin. His throat feels dry. “Next time.


	11. Chapter 11

The visit to Greenwood leaves a bitter taste in Thorin’s mouth, a taste that doesn’t want to leave. But the following day, he sees Thranduil again, and almost immediately they start bickering about who’s going to stand where in the scene they’re filming, and that devolves into a series of increasingly ridiculous insults they throw at each other under their breaths during the scene whenever they can get away with it, and it’s not long before both of them are in stitches and quite unable to work anymore.Thankfully, it’s time for the midday break anyway, so it doesn’t matter anymore.

They eat on set, a plate of sandwiches brought to them from the commissary. It’s simpler, and that way they can eat together. Thranduil keeps smiling at him, and each time, Thorin’s heart jumps in his chest. Somehow, the previous day’s visit seems very far away. He doesn’t want to ask about any of it. Thranduil is acting as though nothing happened, and that’s fine. Maybe it’s something that can just be ignored, like a bad dream. Maybe it’ll just fade away. Besides, nothing feels more important than staying in this moment, under the timeless Los Angeles sky, bleached white by the sun, doing small, simple things like sharing a bottle of soda, talking in their own language, all private jokes and shared allusions, like school kids delighted with the discovery of friendship.

Filming continues. Scene by scene, day after day, they progress through the script. Nothing is in order, of course. Their characters fight, reunite, meet, fall in love, fall out of love. Thranduil dies in his arms and Thorin mourns, howls with the pain of it, his heart broken, tears streaming down his cheeks, then the next moment they’re two strangers attending the same party, studiously ignoring each other even though they’ve noticed the other, how could they not, when they’re being drawn to each other like magnets. Then Thorin is in a garden, somewhere beautiful in France, under the shade of thick clusters of wisteria, lying on the grass with his head in Thranduil’s lap as the omega gently brushes petals away from his eyes, as though they’ll be there forever. Scene after scene, an entire lifetime broken down in small slices of present.

It seems like time has stopped, and it the same time like each second is falling through his hands, sand too fine to hold onto. It reminds him of summer holidays, when he was a child. How with the first signs of autumn, the days seem to rush, inexorably, towards a brick wall.

He sees Oropher once or twice, but mercifully, only in passing. He doesn’t think he could take another tete-a-tete with the alpha. Just seeing him fills him with a strange, irrational dread, an instinctive repulsion. He tries not to spend too much time thinking about it. He has other things to worry about. Or at least that’s what he tells himself: he’ll think about Oropher when he’s finally managed to make sense of what he’s feeling. He can’t put in words, not yet, but he knows he has too. He’s running out of time. 

Soon there will be no more scenes to film, no more lunches eaten in costume, perched on their folding chairs, checking each other’s makeup to see if they need a touch up. Soon the movie will be done. It will probably be very good. Thranduil is absolutely breathtaking in every scene. It might be merely the movies, merely silly entertainment for the masses, but what Thranduil is doing is art. Thorin is just going along for the ride, really. Still, he finds himself wishing for some kind of disaster, something that means they’d have to start all over again, from the start.

There is no disaster. Everything works like clockwork. Time moves on relentlessly. The film is almost over and it’s the end of December. Soon it will be 1926, and new things are coming. People are saying soon the movies will talk, that soon it will be possible to hop onto an airship and wake up in Europe less than a week later.

Thorin doesn’t give a damn about any of that. As far as he’s concerned, it could be 1925 forever.

But it can’t be, no matter how much he wishes. It’s the last day of December now, and the film is done and they’re supposed to be celebrating. There’s a big party at the studio, half new year’s, half wrap party. Everyone is happy, drunk on champagne, wandering in and out of the main building, where the offices are. They’ve set up large tables and glittering lamps, there’s a big band playing all the latest hits, there’s a cute girl dancing the Charleston on a table in the shortest dress Thorin has ever seen, a crowd cheering her on, and Thorin has had at least three glasses of champagne already but it tasted vaguely bitter and he can’t feel the rush of it. He feels absurdly out of place.

Then someone taps his shoulder and he turns around and it’s Thranduil, looking at him with a quizzical expression on his face and the world lights up. “Why on Earth do you look like someone ran over your favourite grandmother, Thorin?” 

“You’re here?” he asks, stupidly. 

“Of course I’m here, where would I be? You’re brooding. What’s upset you now?”

The flow of time. The fact that it’s going to be 1926 and Thorin doesn't want it to be. The fact his feelings are impossible to make sense of, jumbled and broken as they are. How scared he is at the prospect of not seeing Thranduil every day anymore, how it feels as though the air is seeping out of the world and soon he won’t be able to breathe anymore. He doesn’t know if he can live in a world without Thranduil in it. But there’s no way to express the mess going on inside his mind, no words. He opens his mouth anyway.

“I want you to be mine,” he hears himself blurt out, and his own words startle him. He had no idea that’s what he was going to say. It’s so completely random he wouldn’t be surprised if Thranduil just laughed.

Instead, Thranduil recoils as though Thorin just slapped him. “What?” he says, eyes wide.

“I want you to be mine.” This time, Thorin knows with absolute certainty it’s true. He takes one step towards the omega, grabs his arm to pull him close. 

Thranduil tries to pull away, shaking his head frantically. “No. No, please. Don’t say that. You don’t know what you are saying, Thorin.”

Thorin feels the omega trembling under his fingers. “I know. I know this won’t be easy, I know your father won’t like it, but...”

The omega’s eyes are panicked, terrified. “Thorin, no… this is impossible. It can’t be. It can never, ever be, Thorin. You have to leave now. Please. If that’s how you feel, you have to go away. You have to forget about me.”

“No. No, I can’t. Listen, Thranduil, I…”

A shadow falls between them and suddenly there’s a hand on Thorin’s wrist, twisting like a vise, tearing him away from the omega with absolute, unstoppable strength, so tight it feels as though his bones could break. Thorin doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s Oropher. He braces for the outburst that’s sure to come, but instead the older alpha turns to his son.

“Thranduil. We have guests I expect you to entertain. Or have you forgotten?” His tone is cold, implacable.

Thranduil steps back. “Father, I….” he stammers.

“Now, Thranduil,” says the alpha, and it’s an Order, the kind an omega can’t possibly ignore, and the shock of it jolts Thorin like electricity. He sees Thranduil turn sheet-white and stiffen, and a second later the omega is leaving, disappearing down the dark corridor with small, hurried steps, a hand clenched to his chest. 

Thorin looks at Oropher, furious. “Now see here, Oropher, that’s…”

“Silence,” barks the alpha, baring his fangs. “This omega is mine, Thorin, or have you forgotten even that?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything, Oropher. Thranduil hasn’t done anything wrong. You might be his father and his guardian, but I assure you my intentions are perfectly honorable!”

Oropher looks at him curiously, as though he’s just said the strangest thing, then bursts out in laughter. “Oh, my dear boy. My poor dear, stupid boy.”

“What?”

“You have no idea. You don’t even realise how stupid you’re being. What, do you think Thranduil really is a sweet little omega virgin you can take for your bride?” He laughs again.

“What do you mean?”

Oropher smiles at Thorin, cold amusement still shining in his eye. “Well… I’ll show you. Come with me. It’s time you learned some of the secrets of this town.”

He leads Thorin to a small elevator that leads to the top floor, where the executive offices are. “Don’t you find Hollywood parties terribly dull?” he says, as though making conversation. “I do. All the politeness, the ass-kissing, the posturing… But you know what I find most insipid? The way everyone behaves as though they’re so very civilised. So very moral. Of course, we have a certain image to maintain. But as an alpha, Thorin, doesn’t it all strike you as quite ridiculous? Look at you. Do you really believe you should be wooing an omega, as though his opinion mattered? Honorable intentions!” He scoffs. “You’re alpha, man, for God’s sake! Show a little spine!”

“I… I meant what I said,” says Thorin. He has no idea what he should say. He’s never been so confused in his life. So he might as well say the truth.

“Thorin, my dear boy.” Oropher stops in front of a door, the last in a long, empty, carpeted corridor. “I like you. There’s a lot of potential in you. You haven’t even begun to realise it. The problem is that you believe the nonsense they’ve been telling you. Omegas aren’t people. Hell, betas aren’t people. They were put on this Earth to serve, Thorin, just as we were put there to rule. We’re the masters. They’re nothing. Yes, it’s useful to pretend otherwise sometimes, it’s an easy way to keep the masses happy so they don’t think too much. But we rule the world. And we don’t have to act according to their silly morals, Thorin, or obey their laws. They’re not meant for us.”

He pushes the door and invites Thorin in with a tilt of the head.

It’s some kind of lounge, all dark leather, darker wood. It looks like a high end club, the kind of place where alphas decide the fate of the world while swirling expensive drinks in heavy crystal tumblers. The air is thick with the smoke of cigars, the musky scent of alpha arousal, and the sweet heady perfume of omega pheromones and slick.

There are four alphas, not counting him and Oropher, and Thorin knows all of them. Those are some of the most powerful people in the business. Two of them were at Oropher’s table at the premiere of The Falcon, the entrepreneur and the financier. The third is a steel-eyed female alpha who owns most of the newspapers on the west coast. The fourth is an actor Thorin knows pretty well. He worked with him once and didn’t like him much. Much too handsy with the omegas. Overall he’s not even all that surprised, really. That’s exactly the kind of people he would imagine gravitating around someone Oropher.

What stuns him are the omegas. There are five of them, in various stages of undress, some draped lasciviously over the furniture, some kneeling at the alphas’ feet. One is kneeling between the aviation entrepreneur’s legs, head bobbing up and down as she’s giving him head. 

Those aren’t hookers, or even young omega hopefuls fresh off the train and too young to know any better. Those are some of the best known, most famous omega actresses. Stars, adored by fans the world over, stars that live on the silver screen and in glossy magazines, remote and untouchable. And there they are, naked, offered, their eyes empty, their lips half parted and inviting. Flowers, ready to be trampled.

Oropher sees his reaction and laughs. “Do you see what I mean, now, my dear boy? This is our birthright. All we have to do is embrace our true natures, and there isn’t anything in this world that can’t be ours, Thorin. This is what we’re owed. The best of the best.”

A shiver of something half-way between disgust and fear crawls down Thorin’s spine.

“Speaking of the best of the best,” drawls the newspaper magnate, “aren’t we going to see your lovely son tonight, Oropher?”

Oropher smirks. “He’s on his way. I just thought I’d introduce Thorin into our little club first. You see, I’m afraid poor dear Thorin has let himself think he’s in love with Thranduil. It’s quite sweet, really.”

She laughs. “Ah, to be young and foolish.” Her hand is playing idly with the red hair of the omega at her feet. “Don’t worry, Oakenshield, you’ll get what you want soon enough. 

Oropher smirks. “Sit down, Thorin.” It’s not an offer, it’s an order. Thorin doesn’t have to obey, but he does, too confused to do anything else. And, more than that, he feels like he needs to know. It’s like a wound you can’t help prodding. It’s too late now, he has to know more, or he’ll go mad.

He sits in the chair Oropher is pointing out, a large, heavy leather monstrosity that screams alpha power. Immediately, one of the omegas, a lithe young thing who plays peppy flapper roles with a coquettish smile and a mop of curled hair settles down to kneel at his feet.

“What do you want to drink, alpha?” she says. Her smile is strangely fixed, as though she’s trying to convince herself it’s real. As though she’s trying to convince herself all this is fine, that it’s normal, just the way things are.

It’s not. It’s deeply, deeply deeply wrong. This is the twenties, not the dark ages. These are civilised times. 

“Scotch, please,” he hears himself say.

“Please?” Oropher laughs. “You don’t have to pretend, here. That bitch will do anything you say. You want to knot her right here and there? Do it. Don’t worry, she won’t complain about it. She knows how this works.”

As if on queue, the girl gets up, and her entire body is plainly visible through the flimsy piece of lingerie she’s wearing. She’s beautiful, and Thorin’s heart breaks, because behind her smile, her eyes are sad and resigned.

The other alphas chat. Thorin doesn’t even listen. He knows what’s coming, he knows who will soon be coming here, and it fills his mind with a kind of hazy buzzing. The girl kneels back at his feet, and presents him with a heavy tumbler of whiskey. He doesn’t even look at it, just downs it in one go, not even noticing the burn of the liquor down his throat.

“Another, please,” he croaks at her, and she raises a quizzical eyebrow but merely gets up again without a word.

By the time he’s downed the second glass and is working on the third, the world is starting to feel a lot fuzzier and it’s almost - but not quite - possible to bear this situation. Somehow, his hand has found its way into the girl’s hair, and he’s petting her, like he’s trying to soothe her, almost, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She just sits at his feet, her head against her knee. Occasionally she looks up, as though expecting him to ask for something more, but he doesn’t. The others are a lot more demanding, and in his inebriated state Thorin finds it a little amusing, in a macabre way, to hear two alphas calmly discuss the stock market while idly fucking an omega’s mouth. There is something so surreal about it that it doesn’t even seem real.

He tries not to think about any of it. Succeeds, in fact. The half-light, the warmth, the soft hair of the omega, the sweetness of her scent, and the frankly unwise amount of liquor he’s consumed, all that combines to lull him into a kind of stupor, and he’s so out of it he doesn’t even hear the door open or Thranduil come in.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Mirkwood and Elenbookworm, who couldn’t wait.

Thorin just looks up and the omega is there. He changed, and he’s now wearing a floor-length silver lamé dress that falls over him like water. Thorin’s heart skips a beat and the sense of dread he’d managed to push back is now back, clawing at his mind.

“There he is. Stunning as ever,” drawls the aviation millionaire. “What are the rules tonight, Oropher?”

“Oh, I think tonight…” Oropher muses, one finger tapping his chin in thought. “We’ll start slow. No touching, not until I say so.”

The other alpha frowns petulantly, like a child being refused a treat. “You’re no fun.”

“My omega, my rules. Besides… let Thorin enjoy him a little. You’ll get your turn later. Thranduil, make Thorin feel welcome to our little club, won’t you?”

Thranduil smiles prettily and he’s that hollow doll again and Thorin wants to scream. The omega walks towards him, his dress sashaying around his legs. The girl at Thorin’s feet moves away and suddenly Thranduil is standing right in front of him and the cloth of his dress sparkles so dazzlingly it’s mesmerising and there is that scent, that uniquely Thranduil scent, green and sweet, and Thorin wants to rip that dress away from him, wants to touch him, claim him, bury himself inside him, like he’s never wanted anything before in his life - and at the same time, he wants to scream, he wants to fight, he wants to kill those alphas. Alphas who dare think they can touch, own Thranduil - or any omega, in fact, any of those beautiful, pliant, vibrant beings - just because their biology lets them.

Thranduil leans down, slowly, gracefully, until he’s hanging over Thorin, taking up his entire vision. From up close, the silvery powder on his cheeks shimmer. There are strings of pearls wrapped around his neck, hanging from his ears, in his hair. He’s close enough to touch, close enough to grab. Thorin could just reach for him and drag him out of there.

Thranduil leans in closer and his lips brush Thorin’s ear. “Don’t. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t,” he whispers.

“What?” says Thorin in a breath.

“Listen to me, Thorin.” Slowly, Thranduil starts writhing against him, like a snake. He makes it look like he’s pressing his lips to the skin of Thorin’s neck, but Thorin can feel his breath, hot and urgent, as he whispers against his ear. “I know him. This is a test. Say anything and you’ll never work in this town again. I’ll never see you again.”

His voice is so low Thorin holds his breath for a moment to hear better. “Please, Thorin. For me. If you care about me, don’t say anything. I don’t want him to win. He doesn’t get to win, not this time.”

“Thranduil…” Thorin says soundlessly, begging him with his eyes. He can’t stand another second of this. He can’t.

“Listen, you damn alpha,” Thranduil whispers, and it’s as though it jolts Thorin out of his stupor. “You call yourself an actor, don’t you? So act. Do your fucking job.” 

And all of a sudden, with those words, Thorin can breathe again. His anger, his horror at what is happening hasn’t changed, but he can breathe again. He can think. Thranduil has given him a way to do this.

He still wants to get up, scream, punch Oropher in the face. But Thranduil is telling him not to. Thranduil is asking him not to. Of course, he could decide he knows best - alphas don’t have to listen to omegas, after all.

But.

But Thranduil is asking, and Thorin trusts him.

He tilts his head back as the omega raises his arms above his head with a sensuous undulation of his hips. This is a role. He’s a jaded alpha and Thranduil is playing a pretty courtesan, just another omega plaything. Of course, later in the story, the jaded alpha will probably fall for the pretty omega, but right now, he’s just a cad, bored with the world, letting an omega dance sensuously against him to the sound of a barely heard gramophone as though this was the most natural thing in the world. He lets his arms relax against the arms of the chair, settled against the back. He half-closes his eyes, as if he’s enjoying the show. He’s not even looking at Thranduil, really. The omega’s playing his part, he’s playing his. He is intimately familiar with the artistry Thranduil uses to make himself alluring, after all, he’s seen it often enough. And even though he’s always astounded by the omega’s skill, he’s no longer confused by it. He admires, from a professional standpoint, what Thranduil can achieve with a glance, a flick of the hand, a pair of alluringly parted lips.

He knows it’s just a trick. Smoke and mirrors, all of it. The real Thranduil, his Thranduil, has nothing to do with this sex siren. Thranduil is rude, and opinionated, and funny. He’s clever and aggravating and so much sexier than this. This is cheap costume jewellery. It works well on stage, of course. You could even wear it outside, and most people might not notice the difference.

But to Thorin, who’s seen the real thing, this is nothing.

He concentrates on what he has to do, the emotions he wants to project, the small cues he can use to do that. Yes, his body is reacting to his scene partner’s gyrations, but after all that means nothing. It happens sometimes, during a scene, and you laugh it off after. 

What’s harder to control is his anger at the way the other alphas are looking at Thranduil with hunger in their eyes, the other omegas forgotten, discarded, like less interesting toys.

“You can’t let Oakenshield have all the fun, Oropher. It’s not fair,” whines the banker.

“Aren’t you enjoying the show?” drawls Oropher from his armchair. He’s leaning back in the shadows, his face just barely visible in the light of his cigar.

“I don’t mind it, I’d just like it a lot more if it was closer to me.”

“Ha. Fine, then. Thranduil, stop playing with Thorin,” says Oropher, every word an Order, and every omega in the room cringes slightly under the effect of it, “and let us see you properly.”

Thranduil pulls back and for a second, Thorin thinks it’s going to be easier, without the warmth of Thranduil’s body so close to him, so close he can feel it through the omega’s flimsy clothes.

But then Thranduil steps lightly onto the thick Persian rug in the center of the room, like it’s a stage, and with smooth, practiced gestures, he pushes the straps of his dress down his shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, like a curtain of silver folding on itself, and underneath, he’s wearing - nothing.

No, Thorin realises with a start, not nothing. Nothing would be easier to take. He’s wearing strings of pearls, strung around him like some sort of harness, hanging on his skin like frozen drops of water. It hides nothing, emphasises his nakedness, rather. Instinctively, Thorin knows that if he looks at that offered nudity he’ll break. It would be as devastating as looking directly at the sun.

But that, also, is a thing he knows how to do. He’s used to looking at things and pretending they’re not there. For a screen actor, it’s second nature. You’re expected to stare past a camera, the sweaty faces of the crew, the jumbled mess of a film set and act like you’re staring at the most beautiful omega in the word, or your dying mother, or a terrifying monster, or whatever the script calls for. If he can do that, he can look past Thranduil in all his crushing beauty and pretend it’s nothing.

A kind of hush falls on the room. Then someone lets out a low, vulgar whistle and Thorin feels like he could claw the alpha’s eyes out at the disrespect.

“Be a dear and have him present for us, Oropher?” asks the female alpha.

“You can do it yourself if you wish, Wilma.”

“Oh, but I do so like the way he trembles when you Order him,” she pouts.

Oropher laughs. “Years of practice, my dear.” He pauses, like a showman about to reveal a particularly good trick. “Thranduil, _now_ ,” he orders, almost casually, but that one word hits Thranduil like a physical blow, and for a second his mask wavers and his eyes meet Thorin’s, more naked than his body and full of fear and shame.

“It’s alright,” mouths Thorin almost imperceptibly. He realises now it’s his turn to find some way to give the omega strength, to tell him this won’t change Thorin’s opinion of him, not for a second. “I love you.”

As soon as the words form in his lips, they seem obvious. Unavoidable. He loves Thranduil, and it’s as natural as breathing air, as standing on firm ground. As soon as he says those words, he knows they’ve always been true. 

Thranduil’s eyes fall half closed, as though soothed, although Thorin’s words can’t possibly have reached him. But perhaps something has. Because with utter serenity and grace, like an angel folding his wings, he falls to the ground, his white legs under him. He lets his head drop down almost to the ground like a young tree bent by a storm.

He is kneeling on the ground, in a posture of utter submission, offered, and there should be something crass and vulgar about it, or at least that’s how Thorin had always imagined it. That’s why it never felt like something he might want to see, part of why he was always wary of omegas, this cheap, humiliating posture alphas are supposed to crave.

There is nothing cheap there. Just beauty, and submission so total it’s crushing in its enormity, and Thorin can’t breathe.

“Pretty, isn’t he?” snickers the alpha actor Thorin hates. “Shame we can’t show that on screen. It’d be a license to print money.”

Thorin can’t stop himself and snarls, baring his fangs, a low growl of aggression building in his throat at the gall, the audacity of the man. How dare he defile something so beautiful, so precious, with his crass words full of blind, stupid lust.

The newspaper magnate laughs. “Steady there, old chap,” she says. “There’s no need to go biting anyone’s head off. Everyone will get their turn.”

“If _I_ say so,” says Oropher from his corner.

“Yes, we know. If you say so. And once you’ve had your go, of course. Oropher always goes first, with Thranduil,” she adds for Thorin’s benefit, casually, as though it were normal, but at the same time her eyes are full of something like malice, as though she was looking forward to seeing his shock.

Thorin tries, he tries as hard as he can not to react, but the realisation is so crushing he can feel all the blood drain from his face, feels himself go stiff as a board.

“Come on, Oakenshield, don’t look so horrified. It’s not as though it matters. Don’t you know? The bitch can’t breed, anyway. Some sort of accident. He doesn’t even get heats anymore.” She shrugs. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? Prettiest one around and he’s broken. Even if Oropher did give him to you, you can’t bond him. He’s nothing. Just a pretty toy to play with.”

“Don’t be mean to poor Thorin, Wilma,” says Oropher. “He’s young. He doesn’t get these things. And you, Thorin…” Oropher turns his gaze towards him. “If you don’t put away those fangs of yours, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Thorin can’t. He physically can’t stop snarling, can’t stop his throat rumbling with anger, can’t stop himself from rising menacingly and facing Oropher, despite the fact Thranduil asked him, begged him not to do this. “You,” he spits. “How can you? How dare you do this? To your own son?”

Oropher gets up suddenly in one quick movement, his fangs bared as well. “How can I? How dare I? Let me tell you something. I can do anything I want. This bitch is mine and I’ll treat him anyway I wish. If I want to fuck him, I will. If I want to share him, I will. If I wanted to kill him, I could. Now put those fangs away right now, Thorin.”

Pure instinct takes over and Thorin roars, roars and pounces. He wants to feel Oropher’s skin break under his teeth, wants to taste his blood, wants to snap his neck, hear his bones crack.

The next instant he’s slammed into the carpet, so hard stars explode in front of his eyes. Someone, another alpha, is holding him down and he can’t move.

“Stupid boy,” he hears Oropher whisper, then someone kicks him in the side of the head and the world disappears.


	13. Chapter 13

He wakes up flat on his back in the street, on the pavement, in the dirty light of pre-dawn. The side of his head aches, he feels like throwing up, and images from the previous night keep dancing in front of his eyes like flashbacks from a nightmare. He shivers with horror at the thought of what he saw, what he heard.

Then there’s the sound of someone clearing their throat meaningfully and he looks up, startled, into the incongruous face of a kindly-looking beta policeman sitting on his haunches.

“Went a little heavy on the old tonic last night at the studio party, did we, Mr. Oakenshield?” he says, with an amused smile on his face. “You do remember about this little thing we call the Prohibition, don’t you?”

Thorin just blinks at him. Then suddenly the images of last night come back again and he’s retching, he’s throwing up dark, bitter bile, and he can’t stop.

“There, there, Mr. Oakenshield,” says the policeman, patting his shoulder. “Let this be a lesson to you. I know what young alphas are like. I’ll let you off with a warning this time. But next time, be sure to be a little more reasonable, alright?”

Thorin tries to say something, but his throat is too dry. He can’t. “I... “ he starts, then his voice falters. 

“Tell you what. It wouldn’t do much good for one of these damn journalists to come upon you, now, would it?” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Now. The wife’s a big fan of those pictures of yours. How about you sign me an autograph? It’ll make her smile. And I’ll drop you off at your house. It’s somewhere above Benedict Canyon, isn’t it? Not too far off my way.”

Thorin has never felt worse in his life. But he wants to be home, he wants to be somewhere safe. He nods in acquiescence, grateful beyond all reason.

As soon as he’s home, he collapses on his sofa. His head is pounding so hard he can’t even see. He shuts his eyes. Falls asleep, falls unconscious, it’s hard to know which. It seems to last for a second and then suddenly a sounds wakes him and it takes him an inordinately long time to understand it’s his doorbell. Painfully, he drags himself to the door, a deep sense of dread deep in his stomach.

But as soon as he opens the door, it’s as though a veil is lifted, as though light finally comes back into the world.

“You,” he exhales, astonished.

Thranduil is looking at him with a wild, desperate joy. “You’re safe,” he says. “Oh, thank God, you’re safe.”

“Thranduil? How… How did you get here?”

“I… after we got home, I just…I ran away, I suppose. No one knows. I just needed to know you were alright. I drove myself here. I’ll have to go back soon, or my father will find out, but… Can I come in?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, come in.” He closes the door behind them, checking no one has seen anything, but the neighbourhood is completely still. It’s not even six o’clock yet.

The omega is standing in the hall. He’s wearing a shapeless olive-green trench coat and a beta’s hat. It’s not an excellent disguise but it was probably good enough that no one noticed anything strange, especially if he was driving.

“I didn’t know you could drive,” says Thorin stupidly, as though that was the important thing. Not what happened the night before, not the fact the omega has apparently run away from his house and is now standing in a strange alpha’s house, in defiance of every possible convention, not the fact that this is clearly a terrible mistake, because if Thorin is here at all, it’s only because Oropher let him go. And of course as soon as Oropher realises Thranduil has left, he’ll know where he has gone.

“Yes, I can drive, Thorin. It’s not like you need a knot to drive, is it?” says Thranduil in a pale imitation of his usual sardonic tone. 

Thorin smiles weakly at the joke, and Thranduil tries to smile back, but bursts into tears instead. Thorin pulls him close to him feverishly.

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry, Thranduil, please.” Each tear on Thranduil’s face feels like a knife in Thorin’s heart. “Darling, don’t cry.”

Thranduil looks up at Thorin. “I’m so sorry, Thorin. I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry my father did that to you. ”

“Thranduil...” Thorin holds the omega close, stroking his back soothingly. “How I feel doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is you. How are you? Are you alright?”

Thranduil nods. “Yes,” he says. His eyes meet Thorin. “Of course I’m fine. I’m used to it.” His eyes search Thorin’s, as though looking for something. Judgement. Rejection. “I’m so sorry, Thorin. I should have said something. I shouldn’t have let you…”

“Shouldn’t have let me what?”

“I shouldn’t have let you think you cared for me. You see why, now.”

“No. No, darling, don’t say that.” Thorin cups the omega’s face between his hands tenderly, presses his lips to his. “I love you, Thranduil, nothing’s ever going to change that.”

Thranduil’s entire body stiffens, then suddenly he melts into Thorin’s embrace, and he’s kissing him back passionately, hungrily. It’s nothing like the stage kisses they’ve exchanged for the camera, this is raw and messy and uncoordinated. They kiss like they can’t get enough of each other, like they’re trying to drink each other’s soul.

Before Thorin even has time to think about what he’s doing, he’s tearing at Thranduil’s clothes, desperate to get more access to his skin. And Thranduil is helping him, their hands scrambling all over their bodies, undressing each other feverishly as well as they can without breaking the kiss. And then after what seems like an age, Thranduil is naked in his arms, finally. The events from last night don’t even seem real anymore, they don’t even seem possible, when Thranduil is in his arms, warm and vibrant and alive, his skin like silk under Thorin’s hands. He can’t think of anything except the joy, the sheer delight of Thranduil’s presence, bright as the sun. 

Thorin picks him up effortlessly, and holds him up against the wall. His erection is a burning brand between them, and he realises, dimly, that Thranduil is hard as well, hard and wet with slick, but to be honest he’s not even thinking. Pure need is driving him, pure naked desire, and he lets out a growl of pleasure as he lifts the omega and penetrates him in one powerful stroke. The omega keens in response, throwing his head back with total abandon, warm and wet and welcoming around Thorin. His legs cross at the ankle behind Thorin’s back as the alpha starts to thrust. There is no finesse, no art to any of it, it’s as raw as it can be, both of them meeting each other’s strokes so passionately it’s almost clumsy. Thorin kisses the omega again and again, Thranduil’s short, hitched breaths hot against his lips. Thorin kisses the little breathless moans he makes as he nears his climax, the sudden, half-shocked strangled cry when he comes, splattering Thorin’s stomach.

Thorin follows closely after, a violent, blinding climax, almost painful in its intensity. He feels like he’s about to black out, but has enough presence of mind to sink down to the ground, Thranduil held firmly in his lap.

They’re both smiling as they look at each other, still panting. Thorin’s knot is swelling, tying them tightly together.

“Well…” says Thranduil slightly out of breath. “That… wasn’t quite what I anticipated.”

“What, disappointed, are you?” says Thorin. It’s a joke, of course, because Thranduil looks spent and content, but at the same time, this is unknown territory. None of this was even remotely like any sex Thorin ever had.

“What I anticipated coming here, I mean, you damn alpha,” says Thranduil, with a mock-frown that Thorin has to kiss. “You don’t have to look so smug, you know.”

“I’m not smug, I’m happy,” says Thorin, squeezing the omega so tightly for a second that he lets out a little squeal. “There’s a difference, you know.”

“I know. I’m happy too.” Thranduil wraps his arms around Thorin’s neck and sighs contentedly, settling down even lower on Thorin’s knot in the most delightful way. “I’d be happier if I could move, but…”

Thorin leans forward until their foreheads are touching, their breaths mingling. The omega does look happier than Thorin has ever seen him, even though his eyes are still shining with unshed tears. There’s a blush on Thranduil’s cheek that Thorin kisses tenderly. Even though he’s the alpha, he’s the one meant to protect and own, Thorin has never felt safer than in the omega’s arms. All doubt seems to have left him. He takes a deep breath, inhaling Thranduil’s scent, and it feels like home.

“You know, Thranduil… I’d never done that before,” the alpha whispers, and a chill goes down his spine at the idea of admitting this.

Thranduil blinks. “Never done what? Never had sex? Are you joking, Thorin?”

“No, obviously, that, I have. But...” Thorin feels himself blush. “I’ve never… knotted someone before.”

Thranduil tilts his head to the side. “How is that even possible?”

“I…” Thorin bites his lip. “I’ve never been with an omega before.” It feels like a big thing to admit. It goes against everything alphas are supposed to be. But he’s only ever been with alphas and betas, most of them male, at that, not shaped the right way to take a knot. They’d managed otherwise. 

He doesn’t quite dare look Thranduil in the eye. He’s a little afraid the omega will laugh at him.

Thranduil smiles, but he doesn’t laugh. “Oh,” he says. “I see. Then…” His smile turns a little wicked. “You’re going to love this part.”

He moves his hips slowly, in gentle movements that tug at Thorin’s knot just the right side of painful, warm and alive and slick around him, and there’s this great wave of pleasure building in his lower belly, building and building, ever stronger, inexorably, and before he even realises what’s happening his entire body is shuddering in a release greater than anything he’s ever felt, and he’s coming again, in what feels like endless spurts, as though his body is trying to fill Thranduil with his seed. It’s all he can do to hold onto Thranduil and moan, helplessly, half-mad with the pleasure of it, as his body shakes, his face buried in the omega’s neck.

When he starts being able to breathe again, the omega is stroking his hair tenderly. “So?” he asks with a smile. “Did you like that?”

“It’s very… I...Yes. I did,” says Thorin, rather incoherently.

“Good,” says Thranduil, his eyes twinkling. “You looked like you did. You certainly looked a lot less grumpy than you usually do.”

“Shut up, you damn omega,” says Thorin, but the effect is rather spoiled by the fact his voice is still muffled against the omega’s neck.

“Really? And there I was, thinking you were starting to see the point of omegas after all. Do you know,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “we can probably do that again two or three times before your knot goes down.”

“You’re going to kill me,” groans Thorin.

“Nonsense. A great big alpha like yourself? You’ll live.”

Thorin grins. “I do love you, you know,” he says, with a quick kiss to Thranduil’s mouth.

“I love you too. Thorin, I’ve loved you for so long, you have no idea,” says the omega. “But…” His eyes darken. “We have to talk.”

“Yes.” Thorin knows Thranduil is right, of course. There’s a lot they have to talk about. “But not now. Let’s just… enjoy this, alright?”

“Alright,” says Thranduil, laying his head on Thorin’s shoulder. “Just for now.”


	14. Chapter 14

They end up staying in each other’s arms long after Thorin’s knot goes down.Then it’s as though a sudden shadow falls on the room, and reality seeps back in. They move away from each other, get dressed, silent, end up sitting next to each other on the sofa, avoiding each other’s eyes. Neither of them wants to start this conversation.

Finally, Thorin can’t take it anymore. “Let’s go away,” he says. “Let’s leave this place, just you and I. Maybe if we leave now, if we run, then maybe…”

Thranduil shakes his head. “That can’t be, Thorin. There’s no place for us. I can’t ever be yours. We can’t bond. I’ll belong to my father forever.”

Thorin’s throat clenches. “That was true, then? What she said about you being…”

“Broken? Yes. I wouldn’t even be able to bear you a child.”

“I don’t care about that. And we could just run, couldn’t we? Run and never stop running until we find a safe place somewhere, where no one would care.”

“It would be kidnapping. You’d be a criminal. And besides… there’s so much you don’t know. I could never run. I can’t leave Legolas behind. I’ll never be able to leave him. Because… I won’t ever be able to bear you a child, Thorin, but…” The omega’s hands are twisting anxiously in his lap, twisting into inextricable knots. “I already gave birth to one.”

A sudden realisation courses through Thorin’s veins like ice. “Thranduil, when you said Legolas’s mother died…” he says, urgently.

Thranduil nods. “I lied. I’m sorry, Thorin.”

“And... his sire?”

Thranduil’s mouth twists in an ugly, bitter smile. “It’s my father, of course. Who else would it be?”

Thorin wants to press his hands to Thranduil’s mouth, to stop him from talking, as if that would somehow make it less true. The very idea of it repulses him to his core. An image of Legolas flashes into his mind, all wide eyed innocence, blonde childish prettiness. He remembers how much like Thranduil he looked. And how much the omega seemed to want the boy to present as an alpha.

“It started before I even presented,” says Thranduil, and a shudder of horror goes down Thorin’s spine at the thought. “It was always obvious I was going to be an omega. My build, the way I looked…” Thranduil shakes his head. “And the way I would cower whenever my father raised his voice, the way I was never able to talk back to him in any way. I was utterly terrified of him, Thorin. I felt so small, so helpless in his presence.

“I belonged to him, that’s what he always said. That I was his property. That I had to obey him in everything, because he knew what was good for me. What I needed.”

Thranduil’s mouth twists bitterly. “Apparently, what I needed was for him to rape me. Not that’s that is how he put it. It was my fault, somehow. I made him do it. My… my very nature made him do it. And it just went to prove how much I needed him to protect me. After all, if my own father could not keep his hands away from me, no one else could be trusted.

“The only thing I could do was hope, pray, beg the gods that perhaps it would turn out I wasn’t an omega, in the end. I presented late, so I still had hope. Miracles are supposed to happen sometimes, aren’t they? 

“But of course, that’s only true in stories. In real life, things happen the way they’re meant to happen. I got my first heat just a few weeks before I turned fifteen. And by the time it was over, I was pregnant with Legolas.

“I knew almost immediately. I felt sick, bloated, I cried all the time. I tried to hide it from my father, but it didn’t take him very long to notice.

“He called a doctor. It was a beta, I still remember him. When he talked to me, he put on this kind, caring tone, but his eyes were cold. I could tell what he was thinking. Stupid, weak omega trash, letting himself get impregnated on his first heat, not even able to keep his legs closed. He examined me, then he and my father went into the next room to talk. I could hear them as they talked, Thorin. I don’t think they even cared that I could hear. After all, it didn’t matter what I thought. My father said he wanted to get rid of the child as quickly as possible. The doctor didn’t object. All he said was that he’d do it the next day, that he needed to bring some instruments.

“I’d never thought about having a child before, never thought about whether I wanted to or not. But I didn’t want them to rip it out of me like that, like it was nothing, like I was nothing. Without even asking me what I thought, what I wanted. I didn’t know yet whether I wanted this child or not, but at least, I wanted to have some time to think. So that night, I got dressed, quietly, and I left Greenwood. I ran away. I didn’t even dare take anything with me, any money or anything valuable. I was so scared of what my father might say if I stole from him. I had… no idea, no plan, nothing. I just ran, like a brainless omega.”

Thorin shakes his head. “You were fifteen, Thranduil. You were fifteen and terrified and you’d been hurt for so long… Of course you had no idea what to do. Even just running away must have required unbelievable courage.”

“No, Thorin, it was just… stupidity. I didn’t know. I don’t think I would have had the courage to run if I’d known what would happen.” The omega buries his face in his hands. “Thorin, if you knew. If you knew what I did so I could survive…”

Thorin can guess. A young omega alone in the streets has very few options. “Darling, it’s alright. Whatever you had to do, it’s alright,” he says, pulling the omega in closer, wrapping his arms around him tightly. 

Thranduil shakes his head. “You don’t know, Thorin, what it’s like. I had no power at all, no say in any of it. People treated me like a worthless piece of meat, not a human being. A teenage omega, pregnant, unbonded and alone? I was lower than dirt. Even those who paid for me would look at me like I was disgusting, like I was trash. I got beaten, raped, robbed and they said I deserved it all, that only a worthless omega ends up like this, on the street and pregnant, unbonded and alone. They said that that no alpha would abandon a pregnant omega without good reason, that it was all my fault, that anything that happened to me was my fault.

“And the worst thing was that they were right. It was my fault. I’d run away from the one alpha who at least cared enough to protect me, and this was the result.

“And in the end, it didn’t even work. My father found me. I was very far along, eight months or so. I was sick, starving. No one wants to pay for an omega that’s huge with another alpha’s pup, after all. I tried my best to fight him off, but he dragged me back home.

“Legolas was born the following day. It was too early and I was too weak, and my father said that was my fault as well, that I’d ended up killing my baby anyway, that my stupid rebellion had all been in vain. But… in the end, Legolas lived. He was tiny, but so beautiful, so alive, so strong. I was so happy. The birth had gone terribly, I was losing too much blood, the doctor was sure I was going to die, but I was happy. He was so beautiful, Thorin. The nurse let me hold him for a while and I thought ‘that’s fine. I can die, now. He’s alive.’”

There are tears on Thranduil’s face, and Thorin tries to kiss them away. He notices his own face is covered in tears as well.

“In the end, they had to operate on me to save my life. They had to remove some things, they never told me what, of course. But I haven’t had a heat since. I can’t have another child. I can’t bond.

“At first, my father said he was never going to let me out of the house again. That since I’d made my choice, I could live out the rest of my life there, taking care of my child, like the idiot omega that I was.

“But… as I got better, I changed, despite the operation. I matured as an omega, and… I grew into my looks, I suppose. I’d been a pretty child, but, as it turned out, as an adult omega, I was…” Thranduil shrugs. 

“Beautiful. The most beautiful omega in the world,” says Thorin, sincerely.

“Yes, that’s what they say, isn’t it. Well…” Thranduil grimaces self-deprecatingly. “At least it got me out of the house. My father was still… he still wanted me to be his, that never changed. But… I think he also wanted to show me off. Show the world what he had, what he’d made. The perfect omega. All the while knowing it was all a con, because I am as far from perfect as it’s possible to be. Just worthless and used up.”

Thorin wants to say something, tell him it’s not true. Tell him what happened doesn’t make him any less. Tell him he is worth so much more than heats and breeding, that who cares if he can’t bond. It doesn’t take anything away from what he is. And bonds are nothing, nothing compared to the strength of what Thorin feels for Thranduil. Mating someone can’t be just a question of glands and biology. Thorin is often wrong about things, often too naive, and it’s not always easy for him to make sense of his feelings. But there’s one thing he’s certain of, and that’s that he would love Thranduil no matter what. Thorin would love him if he wasn’t an omega. In fact, in a lot of ways, Thorin loves him despite the fact he is an omega.

But he doesn’t know how to start explaining that. And he doesn’t want to interrupt Thranduil. It seems to be so hard for him to speak.

“At first he would just take pictures of me,” the omega starts again. “Show them off to his friends. He’d tell me, sometimes, what they had said. He’d tell me how they wanted me, how they begged him to give me to them, and that I was his and his alone. That’s what excites him, really, the idea that he has something other people want. That’s what I am to him.

“It’s… about power. Everything is about power, with him. Power over me, power over his alpha friends. He likes the control he has. He’ll tell them what they can or can’t do. Sometimes they can look, but not touch. Sometimes he lets them touch, but they’re not allowed to fuck me. And sometimes he lets them do whatever the hell they want. But all the while, he makes it clear who I belong to. That I’m his.”

Mine, now, think Thorin with a rush of fierce possessiveness unlike anything he’s ever felt. Mine, and Oropher will never lay a finger on him again.

Thranduil seems to somehow understand what Thorin is feeling, because he smiles, a little sadly. “I know how it sounds, but in a way, it ended up being a good thing for me. You see, I think that’s why he decided to put me in movies. A way to show me off to other people. It’s not what he said, of course. He just said, one day, that I had to earn my living, that he wasn’t going to take care of me and Legolas for free forever. That was going to work for his studio. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ever leave the house again. It felt terrifying to me, after what had happened. I know it’s pathetic, but I felt at least, with him, I knew where I stood. The idea to have to interact with other alphas… I didn’t know how I would cope. But I had no choice, and I’d given him a new way to control me. If I didn’t do my best, if I wasn’t good enough, he said, he’d take Legolas away from me. And Legolas was so small. He had just turned two. And this thought hit me… that if my father took him away now, then he’d never remember I ever existed. He’d never remember my face. And… Legolas still doesn’t know I gave birth to him, but I don’t think I could bear it if he didn’t even know me. If he didn’t know how I love him.

“So I did as I was told. I was terrified I’d mess up somehow, terrified of everyone around me. But… something happened, Thorin. Something I hadn’t expected at all. I liked it. I I realised this was something I could do, something I was good at. I understood immediately how it worked, what people wanted from me. I could see what would look good on screen and what wouldn’t. My father was very pleased. As far as he knew, I was just doing what he’d told me to do, that was all.

“But for me, it was much more than that. It was something that could be mine. Something my father would let me do, as long as I followed his rules.” He smiles. “And even though I could never say no to my father or his friends, I also found out I could use the way everyone is terrified of him to my advantage. It does stop anyone else who thinks they have a chance with me.”

Thorin shakes his head, astounded. “You mean to say... You use Oropher to protect yourself? On purpose?”

Thranduil nods. “It’s very effective. No one would dare cross him, after all. Well, except you. You didn’t leave me alone.”

“Yes. But it wasn’t because I was brave. I think I just honestly believed my interest in you was purely platonic.”

“Yes, I know.” Thranduil smirks. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that, Thorin, but you can be a bit dim sometimes.” 

“Don’t be rude!”

The omega laughs. “Only sometimes.”

“Oh, is that supposed to make it better?” Thorin pulls Thranduil close to him, kisses his laughing mouth. “You’re mean.”

“Oh? I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you-“ starts the omega and then suddenly he freezes in Thorin’s arms. His eyes turn wide in terror, and he’s looking at something - someone- behind Thorin’s back.

It can only be one person. The fear pouring out of Thranduil makes it clear. There is only one person that does that to the omega, reduces him to this state of absolute paralysis. With a sense of inevitability, a feeling of desperation so total it somehow gives him a kind of strength, a kind of wild, hopeless courage, Thorin turns around.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s Oropher, his face a picture of cold, inflexible rage.

He’s holding a gun.

He’s holding a gun, cocked and ready to fire, an evil looking thing, dark and shining, and he’s aiming it with what is obviously practiced assurance straight at Thorin’s head.

“Now, Thorin,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless. “I’m a reasonable man. I could have forgiven your little outburst last night. After all, young alphas are passionate. It’s quite natural. And I am, to be honest, quite fond of you. But let me be very clear. Let go of this omega _right now_. He’s mine. And there’s one thing I won’t forgive, Thorin. I won’t let anyone take what’s mine.”

Thorin’s arms tighten around Thranduil. “No. Never. He came to me.”

“Of course he came to you. He’s an imbecile. Running away is all he knows. Let go of him, now.”

Thorin’s eyes meet Oropher’s. “No,” he says. 

Oropher’s hand clenches and at that second, Thorin knows he’s going to die. There is not a single trace of hesitation in Oropher’s eyes, not the slightest doubt. Just clean, murderous rage. He feels like time is slowing down, like he’ll be able to see the bullet as it exits the gun’s muzzle, see it rush towards him before it hits right between his eyes.

But Thranduil throws himself over Thorin, draping himself over his body like a shield. “No,” he says, his face buried in Thorin’s chest. “No, father, don’t.”

Thorin tries to push him away - can’t he see it doesn’t matter? It won’t help, Oropher will shoot no matter what, and the only important thing is protecting Thranduil, making sure he doesn’t get hit because of him.

“Get out of the way, omega,” says Oropher in his alpha Voice, and Thorin feels Thranduil tremble against him at the tone. And yet the omega isn’t moving, despite the Order, despite the fact Thorin is trying to get him out of the way. He’s clinging to Thorin with all his strength.

“No!” Thranduil screams this time, hoarse and raw, like he’s tearing his throat apart by saying that. 

Despite his fear, Thorin is stunned. The omega has just refused a direct Order from his father. 

There’s a moment of silence, a pause.

And, suddenly, horrifyingly, Oropher laughs. “Oh, dear. Oh my poor, stupid Thranduil. Look at you,” he says, his tone mocking, cruel. “Look at how hard you’re making this on yourself. It’s almost sweet. Do you honestly think you can stand up to me, that you have a choice in this? Do you think there’s anything you can do? Do you remember, Thranduil, what happened the last time you tried to defy me?”

“I won’t let you hurt him,” says the omega, looking at Oropher over his shoulder, his teeth clenched, eyes wide and defiant.

“There’s nothing you can do. Nothing. I will destroy him, no matter what. Do you know what happens to me if I pull the trigger now? Nothing. Nothing at all. Need I remind you that the police chief is a very close friend of ours? He’s so very fond of you, isn’t he?” Oropher’s lips twist in a sneer. “I can do anything I want. Anything. This town belongs to me. You belong to me. He is nothing. If I kill him, if I kill the both of you, nothing happens to me.”

“Father, please. Please, I’m begging you.” Thranduil is holding on so hard to Thorin that it hurts, not that he cares. “Don’t hurt him.”

Thorin looks down at Thranduil’s tear-stained face and somehow he manages to smile. He presses a kiss to the omega’s brow, lovingly. “It’s all right, darling,” he says, and using all his strength, he peels Thranduil’s hands off him, even though the cry of despair Thranduil lets out as he realises there’s nothing he can do to resist breaks Thorin’s heart. “It’s all right.” His eyes meet Oropher’s again. “If you mean to kill me, do it. Do it now. But Thranduil…”

Oropher laughs again. “Oh, you two are such idiots. I will get to decide what I do, not you. You, Thorin, my boy, are finished. You had one last chance, and you blew it. If you knew what I could do to you, you’d be begging me to end it now. Your money, your reputation, your fame, all that will be gone. No one will be able to help you. Your studio? I’ll crush it. Greyhame won’t even know what hit him. Your friends? I’ll destroy them, one by one, and no one, no one will be able to stop me. In this town, I control the press, I control the police, I control the way the money flows. All thanks to my lovely son and how well he spreads his legs when I ask him to.”

Thranduil whips round. “Never again. Never again, you hear me? If you hurt him…”

“Keep your mouth shut, you filthy, useless whore. One more word out of you and you’ll never see Legolas again, is that clear?”

The pain on Thranduil’s face at those words is so sharp it tears at Thorin like a claw. 

He knows what he has to do, but he’s not sure he has the strength to do it. It’s the only way. Oropher will kill Thranduil otherwise, Thorin is sure of it.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll get a chance. Maybe there’s still some way to defeat Oropher. Maybe if Oropher thinks he’s won, then he’ll let his guard down.

“Thranduil,” says Thorin, gently. “Thranduil, my love, you have to go with him. Please, my darling. He won’t hurt you. You’re too valuable to him.”

“Thorin, no…” begs the omega. “Don’t do this.”

“Darling, you have to. For Legolas. Please.” He kisses Thranduil’s brow again. “Go to him, darling,” he says, as gently as he can, but he puts Intent into it, the way he instinctively knows how. It’s an Order and somehow he knows that even if Thranduil somehow managed to resist Oropher’s Voice, he won’t be able to resist Thorin’s. Because Thorin is his Mate, in ways that go well beyond biology, way beyond bond-bites.

The look of absolute betrayal on Thranduil’s face is almost too much to bear. But Thorin must bear it. “Go to him,” he Orders again.

As though pulled by an invisible string, Thranduil rises to his feet unsteadily. “Thorin…” he says again, piteously.

Thorin shakes his head. “Go.” For one second, it looks as though Thranduil will be able to resist, and then he moves jerkily, as though pushed from behind, towards his father’s side.

Oropher grins in triumph. “Very good, Thorin. You’ve seen reason, then, have you?”

Carefully, Thorin nods, not taking his eyes off the other alpha for a single second.

“Then perhaps I’ll spare your life. Your career, on the other hand…”

“I don’t care about that,” says Thorin.

“Good. Then leave. Take whatever money you have lying around and run, little boy. Don’t spend another night in this town and perhaps I’ll spare your friends.”

“Yes,” says Thorin in a broken voice, and he moves forward, crawling on his hands and knees, as though he’s imploring Oropher. “Please, just don’t kill me, please…”

“Pathetic,” Oropher sneers, and that’s when Thorin strikes, rising, pouncing with all his might, aiming for Oropher’s gun.

He almost makes it. It’s so close he can feel the metal of the barrel brush against his fingers as Oropher jerks it back.

His one chance, and he failed, he thinks, as he hears Oropher shoot.

Thorin goes flying back, a searing pain to the side of his head. Through the white, soundless void that follows the gunshot, he understands that Oropher missed, that the bullet merely grazed his head, but it doesn't matter. His body won’t obey, he can’t move, and Oropher is taking aim again, slowly, taking his time. This time he won’t miss and Thorin’s life is over.

Dimly, he hears Thranduil plead, say he’ll do anything, say he’ll obey Oropher forever, do whatever he wants, if he spares Thorin’s life. He’d like to tell him to stop, tell him it’s useless, pointless, but he can’t. He’s inexorably falling into unconsciousness.

The world fades to dark.


	16. Chapter 16

He comes to someone shaking him, screaming his name. He looks up, wiping something sticky from his eyes, and looks dumbly at his fingers. It’s blood. For a second, he doesn’t remember why there’d be blood on his face, and then it all comes crashing back, a great wave of panic and adrenaline washing through him.

“Mr Oakenshield, Mr Oakenshield, please wake up!” screams the voice again, shrill and panicked.

Thorin finally manages to focus on the small figure next to him.“Legolas?” he breathes, astonished. “What… What are you doing here?”

“You have to wake up! You have to come with me! Now! Please, Mr Oakenshield, there is no time. We have to go back to Greenwood, now!”

Another figure appears next to Legolas, a man, standing, with the scent of a beta. Thorin looks up and it’s Thranduil’s chauffeur, Smythe, his face ashen. He has one hand on Legolas’s shoulder.

“Mr Legolas…” says the chauffeur, reluctantly. “Mr Thranduil said you were to stay here. He specifically said…”

“No!” shouts the boy. “I won’t stay here. We have to go back, now! Mr Oakenshield can help, I know he can.”

“Mr Legolas… perhaps it would be wiser to take him to a hospital?” The chauffeur looks at Thorin with a worried expression. “Are you alright, Sir?”

Thorin nods. “I’m fine. Help me up.” He extends a hand to Smythe, who pulls him up. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, but he can stand. “Where‘s Thranduil?”

“At Greenwood,” says the chauffeur. “Mr Thranduil came back with his father. They were… arguing. Mr Thranduil told me to take Mr Legolas to your place, and to not let him come back. And, especially, not to let you go to Greenwood. To stop you, no matter what.”

Thorin looks at the chauffeur. “I think we both know that’s never going to happen. Of course I’m going there. Do you want to fight me on this, or should we not waste our time?”

Smythe sighs. He looks resigned, as though this was what he’d expected all along. Besides, there’s not a lot he can do to stop him. Even though Thorin is a little groggy, he’s an alpha. A beta’s strength can’t be compared. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that. I’ll drive you back, then.”

“I can go on my own.”

Smythe shakes his head. “I’m worried about Mr Thranduil as well. Mr Oropher was…”

“He’s so angry,” interrupts Legolas. “I’ve never seen father so angry. And Thranduil… He wouldn’t back down. He wouldn't do as father said, even though father was using his Voice on him, and… I wanted to help him, but he told me to run, he told me to go to you.” The boy throws his arms around Thorin, sobbing. “But I’m so scared. I’m scared they’re going to kill each other.”

Thorin strokes the boy’s hair soothingly. “It’s alright, Legolas. I’m going to help him. I’m going to go with Smythe. You stay here, understood?”

“No!” the boy shouts. “No! I’m coming with you! You can’t make me stay here!” His hands clench onto Thorin’s clothes, as though he was never going to let go.

Thorin and Smythe’s eyes meet. Smythe shakes his head. “You won’t be able to make him stay. Better to let him come. I’ll watch over him at the house, if you want.”

Thorin doesn’t want to agree, but there’s very little choice. Time is of the essence. “Fine. Can you drive fast?”

“It’s my job, Mr Oakenshield,” says the chauffeur with a grim smile.

* * *

In the car, Legolas sits close to Thorin, a small ball of pent-up tension. Smythe didn’t lie, he is driving about as fast as the car will go. Still, Thorin can’t stop his fingers from tapping anxiously on his leg in a restless rhythm. The silence is oppressive.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Legolas speaks, his eyes still fixed forward. “You know… Thranduil talks about you a lot. What you do on set. It makes him laugh, when he talks about you.” He looks up at Thorin, then, eyes heartbreakingly blue. It’s the same blue as Thranduil’s. “Do you like him, Mr Oakenshield?”

“Yes,” says Thorin, without a second of hesitation. “Yes, very much, Legolas.” His chest is hurting, as though something was constricting his heart.

“He likes you too,” continues the boy. “I asked him about you when you were filming The Falcon, because I like your films very much. And he said…” Suddenly, there’s a small smile on his lips and he stops, looking down.

“What did he say?” asks Thorin. Somehow listening to Legolas is making him feel a little better. “You can tell me.”

“He said… He said you were very good looking in person, but that he thought you weren’t very smart. But then, later on, he said he’d been wrong about that,” he adds quickly, as though afraid Thorin might get angry. “He said you were actually very nice, but maybe too honorable to understand the way things worked. When I met you, I thought you were nice as well. We talked a lot about you after that. It makes him happy. And… Thranduil’s always so sad, Mr Oakenshield. Especially when father’s around.”

The boy’s face darkens. “I’m not stupid. I see things. And… I have my own bedroom, but when I can’t sleep, usually, I go to Ada’s, and I sleep with him. He doesn’t mind. But… sometimes, late at night, father comes in, and Thranduil goes with him, quietly, because he doesn’t want to wake me. And when he comes back… he smells like father, even though I can tell he’s tried to wash it off, and sometimes he cries.

“Once, I didn’t want to pretend I was asleep anymore, and I asked Ada, and he said… he said it was nothing. Grownup stuff. Not important. But I know it is. Father’s hurting Ada, Mr Oakenshield. That’s what I think.”

“Yes,” Thorin nods. “I know.”

“You know?” Legolas grabs Thorin’s arm. “Then… please, Mr Oakenshield! You have to help him. Maybe you don’t know, but Ada likes you very, very much. You have to help him!”

“Legolas… listen. I know. And I love him too. Very, very much.”

“You do?” Legolas’s eyes light up. “Then… then it’s all easy, isn’t it? You can bond him. If you’re mates, then…”

Thorin shakes his head. “I can’t, Legolas.”

“Because father won’t let you?”

“Because… yes, but it’s not just that. It’s complicated. It’s not something I can tell you about.”

Legolas crosses his arms tightly, like he’s holding himself, hugging himself. “But you love Ada, right? And if you could, you would bond him?”

“Legolas, I…” Thorin hesitates, but suddenly, like a dam bursting, he can’t hold back his words anymore. “Yes, of course I would. Of course I love him. And if I could make him mine, I would. I would in a second.”

“Good,” says the little boy, fiercely. “I’m glad. He needs someone who loves him. He always says he doesn’t need anyone’s help, that he can deal with anything on his own. And maybe that’s true. He’s really strong. But sometimes, he’s so terribly sad. He always tries to hide it, and on other people, it works, but not on me. I see it. And I think he needs more people on his side, so maybe he doesn’t have to be so strong anymore. I think you could do that. You’re always so nice to omegas in your movies.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Thorin has to smile at that. “That’s just the movies, kid. It’s not real. It’s acting.”

“Maybe,” Legolas says. “But I think you’re nice to omegas in real life as well. You are, aren’t you?”

“I… I try to be.” Thorin feels a little embarrassed at the way the child is looking at him, as though trying to see through to his soul. “But when it comes to Thranduil… Legolas, I swear, I would never hurt him. I’m like you. I want him to be happy.”

Legolas says nothing at that, just nods to himself, as though this was merely a confirmation of something he already knew.

* * *

The scene at the house is chaos. 

As soon as they pull in the driveway, it looks like the entire staff is outside, talking amongst themselves with grim faces in a small huddled group. When Thorin and Legolas step out of the car, all eyes turn to them as they make a beeline for the door. A woman, the one Thranduil introduced as Legolas’s nanny, detaches from the group, her face contorted with anxiety.

“Legolas! No, you shouldn’t be here! You can’t go in!… Mr Smythe,” she says to the driver imploringly, “you have to do something. You have to stop them. Mr Oropher had gone mad. And Mr Thranduil… he’s gone into the vault. He had fire with him. I think he means to burn the place down.”

The driver turns white at as a sheet. His hands clench tightly on Legolas’s shoulder. “Mr Legolas, please. You have to stay here. You can’t go in. The entire place will burn, if that’s true.”

“I don’t care,” screams Legolas, “I don’t care!” In a sudden burst, he twists in the chauffeur’s hold and tears himself away and runs towards the house, as fast as his legs will carry him.

The woman screams.

“Stay here,” says Thorin. “All of you, stay here. Smythe, take care of her. I’ll go get them out.”

“Mr Oakenshield, I don’t know if...” says the chauffeur.

Thorin doesn’t listen. “I’ll get both of them back, do you hear me?” he growls, and starts running after Legolas.

* * *

The house is dark, and almost cold. Thorin can hear the boy’s hurried footsteps, shoes on the polished marble floor, resonating through the entire place. He tries to orient himself, tries to remember the layout of the place, but it’s easier said than done. The place is huge. He tries to follow the sound of Legolas’s footsteps, turns into a corridor, then another. It’s all vaguely familiar, yet he can’t be sure. 

Then suddenly, from somewhere deep within the house, he hears a voice. A roar, like a feral beast, ready to attack. It’s Oropher.

“Thranduil! Stop this! Stop now, or I’ll wring your neck, Thranduil, I swear!”

There’s no answer, except a peel of laughter, crystalline as a bell, ringing through the corridors.

“Thranduil!” roars Oropher. “I _will_ kill you!”

“And what makes you think I would care?” Thranduil’s tone is light, mocking, as though he truly doesn’t care.

There’s something in that levity that chills Thorin down to the bone. He turns into another corridor, and there Legolas is, just in front of him. He has finally managed to catch up to the boy. Thorin grabs his arm. “Legolas. Legolas, stop, now.”

Legolas looks up at him. “We can’t stop! Can’t you hear them?” he pleads.

“THRANDUIL!” roars Oropher again, from somewhere close, very close. Legolas cringes against Thorin at the sound. “Keep this up, Thranduil, and I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll rip your son to shreds. I’ll do it, Thranduil, and I’ll make you watch.”

Legolas lets out an audible gasp at that. Thorin looks at him, hoping against hope the boy hasn’t caught on, but the stunned look on Legolas’s face tells him all he needs to know. But mercifully, the shock means Legolas stops struggling to get free, stops trying to pull forward. “Stay here,” orders Thorin urgently. “Please, for the love of god, stay here. I’ll go help Thranduil. Just… please. Stay here.”

He doesn’t have the time to check if the boy is obeying. He has to get to the vault. He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Their voices is guiding him.

“You won’t get the chance to do that, father. I’ll be dead.”

“Thranduil! STOP THIS THIS INSTANT!”

Again, that chilling peel of laughter. “That won’t work, father. That will never work again, not on me. You’re not my alpha.”

Finally, finally, Thorin bursts into the room where the door to Oropher’s vault is. And he freezes. Oropher is there, his back to Thorin, shaking with rage. He doesn’t even turn around, doesn’t even notice Thorin is there.

Thranduil is in the vault, a quiet, triumphant smile on his face. Everywhere around him, there are open film canisters. The film itself is everywhere, it seems, all around him, coiling over itself like snakes in a nest. 

And Thranduil is holding a naked flame. It’s a gasoline lighter, its flame bright orange. The light dances on Thranduil’s face, painting it in moving colours.

“Thranduil!” screams Thorin.

Thranduil eyes flicker towards him for a second, then go back to Oropher.

“Stay where you are, Thorin. I told you not to come.” He sounds reproachful, but in an almost fond way. As though this is what he expected from Thorin. As though he knew Thorin was too stupid not to come. “Is Legolas here too?”

“Yes. Outside. Thranduil, please…”

Thranduil shakes his head. “I’m sorry you have to see this, Thorin, but it’s the only way. I’ll never be free from him.”

“Please, Thranduil,” says Thorin, his voice catching in his throat. “Don’t. I love you. He’s nothing. You don’t have to do this. I’ll protect you.”

At these words, Oropher lets out an inarticulate cry of rage, and whips round to face Thorin. “You. How dare you?” he says. “This is all your fault, you stupid boy!”

He takes one step toward Thorin, arm outstretched, but with one word, Thranduil stops him. “Stop. Don’t take another step, father. Or I’ll drop this.”

Oropher throws his hands in the air. “Fine! Fine, is this what you want? You want this boy? Fine, you can have him, if you wish. Just put this flame out, immediately!”

Thranduil laughs again. “Really? I’m not stupid, father. You’ll never let me go. I know that. You've been telling me that since I was fifteen.”

“Put the flame out, Thranduil,” growls Oropher. With his fangs out, he looks like a monster.

Thranduil smiles prettily. “Why don’t you make me, father?”

Oropher snarls and pounces into the vault, grabs Thranduil’s arm. “Stop this this instant! Do you want me to break your arm, Thranduil?”

Thranduil’s smile changes to one of triumph. “No. I just wanted you to step into the vault.”

“No!” screams Thorin, already running, but it’s as though all this is happening in slow motion. Thranduil opens his hand and the lighter comes tumbling down in a trail of flame. There’s a shrill inarticulate cry that Thorin barely recognises as Legolas from behind him.

The lighter falls to the coils of film. They ignite with an audible whoosh. There’s a fraction of a second when it seems like it’s still possible to do something, and Thorin thinks he might be able to reach Thranduil in time.

Then suddenly the small room explodes in flame, white-hot. There’s a terrible howling sound, and Thorin realises it’s Oropher, burning, and for a second he can make him out in the sea of flames, a white torch in the shape of a man. The air is unbreathable, scorching, with a noxious acrid chemical smell, and underneath it the hideous stench of burning hair, of burning flesh. Desperately, Thorin reaches into that broiling heat, heedless of the searing pain. The light from the burning film is so bright he can’t see anything.

At first it seems like it’s useless, that he’s never going to find Thranduil, but then his burning fingers close on something, someone, and he pulls, as hard as he possibly can, drags Thranduil’s unconscious shape away from the fire. Desperately, he smothers the flames rising from his hair, from his skin. The room is filling with dark, roiling smoke, and he can hear Legolas, coughing.

“Legolas, get out!” he screams, as loud as he can. “Get out now, get help!”

He’s not even sure the boy heard him, not even sure he can run. Perhaps they’re all going to die here, consumed by the flames. But he has to keep trying.

He can’t breathe anymore and his muscles don’t want to obey him, yet he does all he can to drag Thranduil away from the flames, away from the smoke. Nothing else matters now. 

He reaches the slightly cooler air of the corridor and thinks perhaps they will make it. Then there’s another whoosh, like a muffled explosion, and he barely has time to throw himself over Thranduil’s body before the very air around them seems to ignite, blowing the door away from its hinges and sending it crashing down on them.

And then he knows no more.


	17. Chapter 17

When he wakes up, everything is pain. He can’t see, there’s something over his eyes, and he reaches up to tear it away only to realise his entire right arm is bandaged as well, tied in place to something. 

“Thranduil,” he croaks, and his throat feels like it’s been grated raw. “Thranduil!”

“Mr. Oakenshield, don’t move,” says a female voice, her tones soft and soothing . There are hands pushing him down. “You’ve been badly hurt. Don’t move.”

“Thranduil,” he says again, pleadingly. He can’t seem to say anything else.

“Please calm down, Mr. Oakenshield. I’ll get the doctor.”

* * *

The doctor is a female alpha and she sounds stern and authoritative. She tells Thorin that he has to rest, that his arm, his face have been severely burned, that she needs him to cooperate or she can’t answer for his wounds.

Thorin doesn’t care. “What about Thranduil?” he croaks. “Is he alive? Is Legolas alright?”

He hears the alpha sigh. “The boy is alright, Mr. Oakenshield. A bit of smoke inhalation, but he’ll pull through. The omega… his burns are much more severe than yours. I’d rather be very clear right now. We don’t know yet if there’s much of a chance.”

Thorin feels like the air’s been knocked out of him, like he’s falling. His eyes, his face sting as tears come pouring down. “Thranduil…”. He whispers, pleadingly.

“We’re doing all we can. I’m going to give you an injection of morphine, now, Mr Oakenshield. You need your rest.”

He feels the needle go into his arm. “And Oropher?” he asks, already groggy, as the world around him seems to fade away.

“I’m very sorry. He died.”

“Good,” says Thorin venomously, just before slipping back into unconsciousness.

* * *

His recovery is slow. He’s impatient, and that doesn’t help much. He doesn’t want people to fuss over him, to talk about scarring and rehabilitation in muted tones. He doesn’t care how much it hurts when they change the dressings on his wounds, he just wishes they’d hurry up and finish so he can ask them about Thranduil.

No one wants to answer. They try to avoid the question, tell him not to worry, tell him to take care of himself first, and Thorin is so terrified he feels like he can’t breathe. But when he asks if he’s dead, they say no. They say no, but to Thorin, it sounds like “not yet.” And he would gladly give every ounce of life in his body, if it would help Thranduil. He’s not given to prayer, but he spends his days wishing - willing - Thranduil to recover, as though his thoughts could help.

* * *

After a while - a few days? A few weeks? It’s hard to tell, with the morphine - they remove the bandages over his eyes. To his doctor’s relief, he can see. Not well, his right eye is mostly a blur, but he can see. He doesn’t care. There’s nothing to see, since Thranduil is not there.

One day, the doctor brings in someone new, a beta in a sharp business suit. He’s a lawyer, he explains. The executor of Oropher’s estate. Thorin almost tells him to go to hell, but the doctor insists. This is important. This is about Legolas. 

So he listens as the lawyer clears his throat, his eyes drawn nervously to the bright pink half-healed scar across Thorin’s brow.

“Well, Mr Oakenshield, you see, it’s quite a delicate matter. The boy has said something quite… surprising, and if it is true, it changes a lot of things.”

Thorin’s heart skips a beat. What has Legolas said? The truth about the fire, perhaps? If he did, and people are accusing Thranduil of killing his father, then Thorin will defend Thranduil in court with everything he has. He’ll tell the entire story to the world, if needs be. Or he’ll accuse himself instead. People will believe him, he’s an alpha. Anything to save Thranduil.

He holds his breath, his jaw clenched tightly, waiting for the lawyer to speak.

“Is it true, Mr. Oakenshield, that you and Thranduil Lasgalen became a fully bonded pair, with his father’s consent, shortly before the… before the incident?”

Thorin freezes for a second, stunned.

“You see,” says the lawyer apologetically, “we wouldn’t have to ask, normally, of course, but… the omega’s neck was badly burned, and we can’t ascertain whether he has a bond-mark or not. I’m very sorry, Mr. Oakenshield, I have to ask. Is he your mate?”

That, at least, is easy enough to answer, even though the haze of Thorin’s reeling mind.

“Yes. He is my mate,” he says, with absolute certainty.

“Then I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Oakenshield. This simplifies matters greatly.” The lawyer puts on a pair of glasses and peers at his papers. “You see, that makes you Legolas and Thranduil Oropher’s legal guardian, at least until the boy presents. And of course, you’ll also also have full control of the late Mr. Lasgalen’s estate, of course. It’s… quite considerable.”

“And after Legolas presents?” asks Thorin cautiously. He’s not sure he can quite believe what he’s hearing.

“Well, in the absence of a will, it’s quite simple. If he’s an alpha, half the estate goes to him, but you’ll remain his guardian until he’s of age. The rest goes to you, as the alpha mate of an omega offspring. If he’s a beta, he’ll get a third. If he’s an omega, on the other hand…”

“I’ll be his guardian until he’s bonded to an alpha. Is that it?”

The lawyer nods. “Yes. Exactly. It’s simple enough. We just needed to make sure what the boy was saying was true, Mr. Oakenshield, you understand.”

“It is,” Thorin says firmly. “Thranduil is my mate. His father approved.”

“Wonderful. Like I said, this’ll simplify matters greatly. I’ll have the paperwork drawn out to make everything nice and official. You can concentrate on getting better.”

The beta gets up, smoothing his trousers, but pauses for a second. “Oh. I am sorry I have to broach the subject, but of course… should Thranduil Lasgalen pass away as a result of his injuries, that changes nothing. You remain head alpha of the household.”

“Thranduil is not going to die,” says Thorin with finality. Thranduil can’t die. Thorin won’t allow it. His fist clench, hard, pulling on the half-healed burned skin of his arm.

“Of course, Mr. Oakenshield. I’m quite sorry I had to even mention it...”

“Good day, sir,” says Thorin behind clenched teeth. 

“Yes. Quite. Good day, Mr. Oakenshield,” says the beta, putting his hat back on. 

Thorin collapses back on his bed. He’s exhausted, and astonished by Legolas’s resourcefulness. He’s managed to set this whole thing up, to lie convincingly enough to god knows how many grown-ups, and now, he and Thranduil both in effect belong to Thorin. 

It’s brilliant, especially for a nine year old, and overwhelming to think Legolas trusts him enough for that.

The doctor is looking at him with a quizzical expression. “You never said he was your mate,” she says carefully. It looks as though she has some doubts about the whole story. 

“I don’t see why it’s any of your business,” says Thorin, trying to sound dismissive. “Our bond was a secret.”

“Ah.” The doctor doesn’t look entirely convinced, and at first it looks as though she’s going to call him out on it, but then she doesn’t. “Then I suppose you should know.”

“Know what?” says Thorin, the sour taste of panic in his mouth. “Is it about Thranduil?”

“Yes. Please calm yourself, Mr. Oakenshield. The omega is doing as well as can be expected, it’s just...”

Thorin lets out a breath in a rush of air. He feels almost dizzy. “He’s going to live?”

“I can’t promise that, Mr. Oakenshield. There’s always the threat of infection. And we haven’t been able to rule out all possibility of a brain injury yet. He’s only been conscious for a few seconds at a time. The pain…” She stops, and Thorin wants to scream.

“What? Go on, woman!”

“Mr. Oakenshield, I’m not going to lie to you. He’s been terribly hurt. It’s not that his burns are not healing well. They’re doing better than yours, in fact. You know the extraordinary powers of recovery omegas have. But they were also much more severe than yours. Especially... to his face, unfortunately. I’m very sorry, Mr. Oakenshield, but even if he survives, your omega’s face will very likely be scarred for the rest of his life. As his mate, the decision is up to you. It might be more merciful to let him go peacefully. We have the means to do that, ensure a quiet end.”

“What?”

“It might be better for him in the long run than being rejected by his mate, Mr. Oakenshield.”

“You think I’m going to reject Thranduil because… because his face is scarred?” says Thorin. He’s too shocked to even feel the anger he should be feeling.

“He won’t be able to act again. He’s disfigured. He’s lost all use of his left eye. His entire left flank is damaged. He’s not the omega you mated anymore.”

“If you say another word, woman, I’m going to kill you,” says Thorin, his voice full of cold fury. “Thranduil is my mate. He’ll always be my mate. I don’t care what he looks like. All I want is for him to be alive. I need him, you understand? I can’t live without him. And if I hear anyone has harmed him in any way...”

The female alpha’s eyes soften. “Yes. I do understand, Mr Oakenshield. And I’m glad this is how you feel. Not all alphas feel the same way about a maimed omega, you understand. But this is very reassuring. And I’m sure your omega will do much better, now we can tell him his alpha will stand by him no matter what.”

“Can I see him, now?”

“No, Mr. Oakenshield.” Thorin feels like he could weep. “Not now. It’s too risky. But soon.”


	18. Chapter 18

It’s a few more weeks before Thorin is allowed to see Thranduil, long, endless weeks, during which he’s not allowed to see anyone. But the alpha is feeling a lot better, now. His vision has more or less returned to normal, his arm and hand barely hurt anymore. 

Thranduil, they tell him, is a long way from well, but he’s doing better. His face is healing, and they’ve been able to remove the bandages there. His hand, his side, also severely burned, are healing. He’s still very fragile, though, and Thorin is instructed to keep the visit short, the touching to a minimum. 

He stops in front of the door to Thranduil’s room for a second. His heart is beating so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. 

He opens the door. The room is all white, sunlight streaming in through the window. Thranduil is sitting on the bed, a slight, thin figure. He’s looking at his hands, one of which is still tightly bandaged. His hair is short, now, barely reaching the lobe of his ears. A lot of it must have been consumed in the fire.The right side of his face is startlingly untouched. The left is a mess of uneven scars, pink and shiny. The eye on that side is milky-white and sightless. The scars run down the side of his long neck and disappear under his clothes.

“Hello, you damn omega,” says Thorin. His voice catches in his throat, rather spoiling the effect.

Thranduil finally looks up. There are tears in his good eye. “Thorin…” he says under his breath.

Thorin sits down on the bed, close to him, takes his good hand and presses it to his mouth. “So you’ve finally decided to bob your hair, have you?” he says. “It suits you.”

Thranduil lets out a huff, half-laughter, half-surprise. “It does not, you stupid alpha. It makes me look like Lon Chaney about to play Peter Pan in a pantomime.”

“Listen, you damn omega. If I say it suits you, then it suits you. After all…” Thorin squeezes his eyes shut for a second. He doesn’t want to cry. “After all, I am your mate, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” says Thranduil softly. “Yes, you are.”

“Besides, you’ll have all the time in the world to grow your hair, if that’s what you want. As soon as you’re well enough, we’re going away.”

“Away from Hollywood?” There’s a hopeful light on the omega’s face.

“Yes. Of course. It’s what you want, isn’t it, darling?”

“Yes. But what about you?”

Thorin smiles ruefully. “I think I’ve had my fill of moviemaking. And I don't think I could bear to live amongst those people ever again. I thought perhaps we could buy a ranch, away from the crowds. Somewhere with trees, near the mountains, maybe. We could live there, the three of us.”

“Legolas too?”

“Of course,” Thorin nods. “He is my ward, now, anyway. I take it you know what he did?”

“Yes, he told me. It’s the first thing he said when they finally let me see him. That I didn’t have to worry anymore. That I belonged to you now.”

“I think we’ll have to keep an eye on that one. He’s clearly way too clever for his own good.”

Thranduil sighs. “I don’t know where he gets it from.”

“His mother, who else?” smiles Thorin.

Thranduil shakes his head. “How can you say that, after what I did?” He raises his hand, lets his fingers stroke the scar on Thorin’s brow. “I hurt you. You could have died, because of me. It’s my fault.”

“No. None of it is your fault. And if I had to do it again, I would, a thousand times over. I don’t care that I got hurt. I saved you. That’s all that matters.”

Thranduil smiles ruefully. “And now, as a result, you’re stuck with a useless, maimed omega.”

“I’m not stuck with anything. I chose. They tried to tell me I could get rid of you, you know?” He tries to smile, tries to make light of that horrifying proposal, but it’s hard. The idea of anyone thinking his Thranduil is worth less, somehow, because he’s been hurt, is something he can’t forgive. “I said it seemed like too much trouble,” he continues. “After all, I’m never going to find another one like quite like you. And I don’t know if you know this, but I’m really fond of you.”

“Even with all this?” Thranduil gestures to his face. “Come on. I’ve always known you were an idiot, but this is going too far.” His tone is light, but his good eye is searching Thorin’s face, as though he’s a little bit unsure.

Thorin’s smile is gentle. ““I’m not like you, you vain, superficial creature. Unlike you, I’m actually capable of depth of feeling, you know. I don’t care about how you look. Besides, I have scars too. And if you think they’re going to make me too repulsive to touch, tell me now, before I get my hopes up.”

“You weren’t even that good looking before, if you ask me. So… You’re planning on doing a lot of touching, are you?”

“A lot. As soon as the doctors say you’re well enough.”

“Oh, and how are you going to ask them? ‘Say, doctor, could you let me know when I can fuck my omega, I’m getting a severe case of blue balls over here’?”

“Don’t be so crude, you damn omega.”

“Why not? You’re the one who was talking about touching. I’m sorry, I assumed you meant fucking, not holding hands.”

“Shut up.”

Thranduil raises an eyebrow. “Make me.”

With a grin, Thorin leans in closer. Thranduil is smiling, his mouth a little crooked now because of the scars. It’s the most beautiful smile Thorin has ever seen in his life. “I love you, Thranduil,” he says.

Their lips meet.

Fade out.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, please don't hesitate to post a comment or come over to uminoarawashi at tumblr.com if you want to chat. I don’t post anything specific, but I’m very open to fic recs or random fandom related musings!


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